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TIGER LILY 


And Other Stories. 


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4 



TIGER LILY 


AND OTHER STORIES 




JULIA SCHAYER 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1883 


Copyright, 1883, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, 


Trow’s 

Printing and Bookbinding Company 
201-213 East Twelfth Street 
NEW YOKK 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

Tiger Lily, i 

Thirza, . . S9 

Molly, 127 

A Summer’s Diversion, 159 

My Friend Mrs. Angel, 195 



Tiger-Lily. 





TIGER-LILY. 


The shrill treble of a girl’s voice, raised to its 
highest pitch in anger and remonstrance, broke in 
upon the scholarly meditations of the teacher of the 
Ridgemont grammar school. He raised his head 
from his book to listen. It came again, mingled 
with boyish cries and jeers, and the sound of blows 
and scuffling. The teacher, a small; fagged-look- 
ing man of middle age, rose hastily, and went out 
of the school-house. 

Both grammar and high school had just been 
dismissed, and the bare-trodden play-ground was 
filled with the departing scholars. In the centre 
of the ground a group of boys had collected, and 
from this group the discordant sounds still pro- 
ceeded. 

“ What is the meaning of this disturbance ? ” the 
master asked, coming near. 

At the sound of his voice the group fell apart, 
disclosing, as a central point, the figure of a girl 
of thirteen or fourteen years. She was thin and 
straight, and her face, now ablaze with anger and 
excitement, was a singular one, full of contradic- 


tions, yet not inharmonious as a whole. It was 
fair, but not as blondes are fair, and its creamy 
surface was flecked upon the cheeks with dark, vel- 
vety freckles. Her features were symmetrical, yet 
a trifle heavy, particularly the lips, and certain 
dusky tints were noticeable about the large gray 
eyes and delicate temples, as well as a peculiar 
crisp ripple in the mass of vivid red hair which fell 
from under her torn straw hat. 

Clinging to her scant skirts was a small hunch- 
backed boy, crying dismally, and making the most 
of his tears by rubbing them into his sickly face 
with a pair of grimy fists. 

The teacher looked about him with disapproval 
in his glance. The group contained, no doubt, its 
fair proportion of future legislators and presidents, 
but the raw material was neither encouraging nor 
pleasant to look upon. The culprits returned his 
wavering gaze, some looking a little conscience- 
smitten, others boldly impertinent, others still (and 
those the worst in the lot) with a charming air of 
innocence and candor. 

What is it ? the master repeated. What is 
the matter ? 

“ They were plaguing Bobby, here,’' the girl 
broke in, breathlessly, — “ taking his marbles away, 
and making him cry — the mean, cruel things 1 ” 

“ Hush ! ” said the teacher, with a feeble gesture 
of authority. “ Is that so, boys ? ” 


Tiger- Lily. 5 

The boys .grinned at each other furtively, but 
made no answer. 

Boys,” he remarked, solemnly, ‘‘I — I’m 
ashamed of you ! ” 

The delinquents not appearing crushed by this 
announcement, he turned again to the girl. 

Girls should not quarrel and fight, my dear. 
It isn’t proper, you know.” 

A mocking smile sprang to the girl’s lips, and a 
sharp glance shot from under her black, up-curling 
lashes, but she did not speak. 

She’s alters a-fightin’,” ventured one of the 
urchins, emboldened by the teacher’s reproof ; at 
which the girl turned upon him so fiercely that he 
shrank hastily out of sight behind his nearest com- 
panion. 

You are not one of my scholars ? ” the master 
asked, keeping his mild eyes upon the scornful face 
and defiant little figure. 

No ! ” the girl answered. '‘I go to the high 
school ! ” 

You are small to be in the high school,” he 
said, smiling upon her kindly. 

It don’t go by sizes ! ” said the child promptly, 

^‘No; certainly not, certainly not,” said the 
teacher, a little staggered, "'What is your name, 
child ? ” 

" Lilly, sir; Lilly O’Connell,” she answered, in- 
differently. 


B- 


) 


6 Tiger- Lily. 

** Lilly!” the teacher repeated abstractedly, 
looking into the dusky face, with its flashing eyes 
and fallen ruddy tresses, — “ Lilly I ” 

“ It ought to have been Tiger-\J\\y I ” said a 
pert voice. It would suit her, I’m sure, more 
ways than one 1 ” and the speaker, a pretty, hand- 
somely-dressed blonde girl of about her own age, 
laughed, and looked about for appreciation of her 
cleverness, 

‘‘So it would!” cried a boyish voice. “Her 
red hair, and freckles, and temper ! Tiger-Lily ! 
That’s a good one ! ” 

A shout of laughter, and loud cries of “ Tiger- 
Lily ! ” immediately arose, mingled with another 
epithet more galling still, in the midst of which the 
master’s deprecating words were utterly lost, 

A dark red surged into the girl’s face. She 
turned one eloquent look of wrath upon her tor- 
mentors, another, intensified, upon the pretty child 
who had spoken, and w^alked away from the place, 
leading the cripple by the hand. 

“ Oh, come now, Flossie,” said a handsome boy, 
who stood near the blonde girl, “ I wouldn’t tease 
her. She can’t help it, you know.” 

“ Pity she couldn’t know who is taking up for 
her ! ” she retorted, tossing the yellow braid which 
hung below her waist, and sauntering away home- 
ward. 

“Oh, pshaw!” the boy said, coloring to the 


7 


Tiger ‘Lily. 

roots of his hair; that’s the way with you girls. 
You know what I mean. She can’t help it that 
her mother was a — a mulatto, or something, and 
her hair red. It’s mean to tease her.” 

She can help quarrelling and fighting with the 
boys, though,” said Miss Flossie, looking unuttera- 
ble scorn. 

“She wouldn’t do it, I guess, if they’d let her 
alone,” the young fellow answered, stoutly. “ It’s 
enough to make anybody feel savage to be badg- 
ered, and called names, and laughed at all the time. 
It makes me mad to see it. Besides, it isn’t al- 
ways for herself she quarrels. It’s often enough 
for some little fellow like. Bobby, .that the big 
fellows are abusing. She is good-hearted, any- 
how.” 

They had reached by this time the gate opening 
upon the lawn which surrounded the residence of 
Flossie’s mother, the widow Fairfield. It was a 
small, but ornate dwelling, expressive, at every 
point, of gentility and modern improvements. The 
lawn itself was well kept, and adorned with flower- 
beds and a tiny fountain. Mrs. Fairfield, a 
youthful matron in rich mourning of the second 
stage, sat in a wicker chair upon the veranda 
reading, and fanning herself with an air of elegant 
leisure. 

Miss Flossie paused. She did not want to quar- 
rel with her boyish admirer, and, with the true in- 


's 



8 


Tiger -Lily. 

stinct of coquetry, instantly appeared to have for- 
gotten her previous irritation. 

Won’t you come in, Roger ? ” she said, sweetly. 
** Our strawberries are ripe.” 

The boy smiled at the tempting suggestion, but 
shook his head. 

Can’t,” he answered, briefly. I’ve got a lot 
of Latin to do. Good-by.” 

He nodded pleasantly and went his way. It 
lay through the village and along the fields and 
gardens beyond. Just as he came in sight of 
his home, — a square, elm-shaded mansion of 
red brick, standing on a gentle rise a little far- 
ther on, — he paused at a place where a shallow 
brook came creeping through the lush grass of 
the meadow which bounded his father’s pos- 
sessions. He listened a moment to its low gurg- 
ling, so suggestive of wood rambles and speckled 
trout, then tossed his strap of books into the 
meadow, leaped after it, and followed the brook’s 
course for a little distance, stooping and peer- 
ing with his keen brown eyes into each dusky 
pool. 

All at once, as he looked and listened, another 
sound than the brook’s plashing came to his ears, 
and he started up and turned his head. A stump 
fence, black and bristling, divided the meadow 
from the adjoining field, its uncouth projections 
draped in tender, clinging vines, and he stepped 




9 


Tiger -Lily, 

softly toward it and looked across. It was a rocky 
field, where a thin crop of grass was trying to hold 
its own against a vast growth of weeds, and was 
getting the worst of it, — a barren, shiftless field, 
fitly matching the big shiftless barn and small 
shiftless house to which it appertained. 

Lying prone among the daisies was Lilly O’Con- 
nell, her face buried in her apron, the red rippling 
mane falling about her, her slender form shaking 
with deep and unrestrained sobs. 

Roger looked on a moment and then leaped the 
fence. The girl rose instantly to a sitting position, 
and glared defiance at him from a pair of tear- 
stained eyes. 

What are you crying about? ” he asked, with 
awkward kindness. 

Her face softened, and a fresh sob shook her. * 

** Oh, come ! ” said Roger ; don’t mind what 
a lot of sneaks say.” 

The girl looked up quickly into the honest dark 
eyes. 

It was Florence Fairfield that said it,” she re- 
turned, speaking very rapidly. 

Roger gave an uneasy laugh. 

Oh ! you mean that about the ' Tiger-Lily ' ? ” 

Yes,” she answered, and it’s true. It’s true 
as can be. See ! ” And for the first time the boy 
noticed that her gingham apron was filled with the 
fiery blossoms of the tiger-lily. 

I* 


lO 


Tiger- Lily, 

** See ! ” she said again, with an unchildish laugh, 
holding the flowers against her face. 

Roger was not an imaginative boy, but he could 
not help feeling the subtle likeness between the 
fervid blossoms, strange, tropical outgrowth of 
arid New England soil, and this passionate child 
of mingled races, with her ruddy hair, and glow- 
ing eyes and lips. For a moment he did not know 
what to say, but at last, in his simple, boyish way 
he said : 

“ Well, what of it ? I think they’re splendid.” 

The girl looked up incredulously. 

“I wouldn’t mind the — the hair /” he stam- 
mered. “ I’ve got a cousin up to Boston, and 
she’s a great belle — a beauty, you know. All the 
artists are crazy to paint her picture, and her hair 
is just the color of yours.” 

Lilly laid the flowers down. Her eyes fell. 

“ You don’t understand,” she said, slowly. 
** Other girls have red hair. It isn’t that.” 

Roger’s eyes faltered in their reassuring gaze. 

I — I wouldn’t mind — the other thing, either, 
if I were you,” he stammered. 

^‘You don’t know ivhat you’d do if you were 
;;^^.^”the girl cried, passionately. “You don’t 
know what you’d do if you were hated, and de- 
spised, and laughed at, every day of your life ! 
And how would you like the feeling that it could 
never be any different, no matter where you went, 


Tiger- Lily, ii 

or how hard you tried to be good, or how much 
you learned ? Never, never any different ! Ah, it 
makes me hate myself, and everybody ! I could 
tear them to pieces-, like this, and this ! ” 

She had risen, and was tearing the scarlet petals 
of the lilies into pieces, her teeth' set, her eyes 
flashing. 

‘‘Look at them !” she cried wildly. “How 
like me they are, all red blood like yours, except 
those few black drops which never can be washed 
out! Never! Never!'' 

And again the child threw herself upon the 
ground, face downward, and broke into wild, con- 
vulsive sobbing. 

Young Roger was in an agony of pity. He 
found his position as consoler a trying one. An 
older person might well have quailed before this 
outburst of unchild-like passion. He knew that 
what she said was true — terribly, bitterly true, and 
this kept him dumb. He only stood and looked 
down upon the quivering little figure in embar- 
rassed silence. 

Suddenly the girl raised her head, with a flash 
of her eyes. 

“What does God mean,” she cried, fiercely, 
“ by making such a difference in people ? ” 

Roger’s face became graver still. 

“ I can’t tell you that, Lilly,” he answered, so- 
berly. “ You’ll have to ask the minister. But 


12 


Tiger-Lily, 

Fve often thought of it myself. I suppose there is 
a reason, if we only knew. I guess all we can do 
is to begin where God has put us, and do what we 
can.” 

Lilly slowly gathered her disordered hair into 
one hand and 'pushed it behind her shoulders, her 
tear-stained' eyes fixed sadly on the boy’s troubled 
face. 

The tea-bell, sounding from the distance, brought 
a welcome interruption, and Roger turned to go. 
He looked back when half across the meadow, and 
saw the little figure standing in relief upon a rocky 
hillock, the sun kindling her red locks into gold. 

A few years previously, O’Connell had made his 
appearance in Ridgemont with wife and child, and 
had procured a lease of the run-down farm and 
buildings which had been their home ever since. 
It was understood that they had come from one of 
the Middle States, but beyond this nothing of their 
history was known. 

The wife, a beautiful quadroon, sank beneath the 
severity of the climate, and lived but a short time. 
After her death, O’Connell, always a surly, hot- 
headed fellow, grew surlier still, and fell into evil 
ways. The child, with a curious sort of dignity 
and independence, took upon her small shoulders 
the burden her mother had laid aside, and carried 
on the forlorn household in her own way, without 
assistance or interference. 


13 


Tiger -Lily, 

That she was not like other children, that she 
was set apart from them by some strange circum- 
stance, she had early learned to feel. In time she 
began to comprehend in what the difference lay, 
and the knowledge roused within her a burning 
sense of wrong, a fierce spirit of resistance. 

With the creamy skin, the full, soft features, the 
mellow voice, and impassioned nature of her quad- 
roon mother, Lilly had inherited the fiery Celtic 
hair, gray-green eyes, and quick intelligence of her 
father. 

She contrived to go to school, where her clever- 
ness placed her ahead of other girls of her age, but 
did not raise her above the unreasoning aversion 
of her school-mates ; and the consciousness of this 
rankled in the child’s soul, giving to her face a 
pathetic, hunted look, and to her tongue a sharp- 
ness which few cared to encounter. 

Those who knew her best — her teachers, and a 
few who would not let their inborn and unconquer- 
able prejudice of race stand in the way of their 
judgment — knew that, with all her faults of temper, 
the girl was brave, and truthful, and warm-hearted. 
They pitied the child, born under a shadow which 
could never be lifted, and gave her freely the kind 
words for which her heart secretly longed. 

There was little else they could do, for every at- 
tempt at other kindness was repelled with a proud 
indifference which forbade further overtures. So 


H 


Tiger- Lily, 

she had gone her way, walking in the shadow 
which darkened and deepened as she grew older, 
until at last she stood upon the threshold of wo- 
manhood. 

It was at this period of her life that the incidents 
we have related occurred. Small as they were, 
they proved a crisis in the girl’s life. Too much a 
child to be capable of forming a definite resolve, or 
rather, perhaps, of putting it into form and deliber- 
ately setting about its fulfilment, still the sensitive 
nature had received an impression, which became a 
most puissant influence in shaping her life. 

A change came over her, so great as to have es- 
caped no interested eyes ; but interested eyes 
were few. 

Her teachers, more than any others, marked the 
change. There was more care of her person and 
dress, and the raillery of her school-mates was met 
by an indifference which, however hard its assump- 
tion may have been, at once disarmed and puzzled 
them. 

Now and then, the low and unprovoked taunts of 
her boyish tormentors roused her to an outburst 
of the old spirit, but for the most part they were 
met only with a flash of the steel-gray eyes, and a 
curl of the full red lips. 

One Sunday, too, to the amazement of pupils 
and the embarrassment of teachers, Lilly O’Connell, 
neatly attired and quite self-possessed, walked into 


15 


Tiger -Lily. 

the Sunday-school, from which she had angrily de- 
parted, stung by some childish slight, two years 
before. The minister went to her, welcomed her 
pleasantly, and gave her a seat in a class of girls of 
her own age, who, awed by the mingled dignity 
and determination of his manner, swallowed their 
indignation, and moved along — a trifle more than 
was necessary — to give her room. 

The little tremor of excitement soon subsided, 
and Lilly’s quickness and attentiveness won for her 
an outward show, at least, of consideration and 
kindness, which extended outside of school limits, 
and gradually, all demonstrations of an unpleasant 
nature ceased. 

When she was about sixteen her father died. 
This event, which left her a homeless orphan, was 
turned by the practical kindness of Parson Town- 
send — the good old minister who had stood be- 
tween her and a thousand annoyances and wrongs 
— into the most fortunate event of her life. He, 
not without some previous domestic controversy, 
took the girl into his own family, and there, under 
kind and Christian influences, she lived for a num- 
ber of years. 

At eighteen her school-life terminated, and, by 
the advice of Parson Townsend, she applied for 
a position as teacher of the primary school. 

The spirit with which her application was met 
was a revelation and a shock to her. The outward 


i6 


Tiger- Lily. 

kindness and tolerance which of late years had been 
manifested toward her, had led her into a fictitious 
state of content and confidence. 

I was foolish enough,” she said to herself, 
with bitterness, “ to think that because the boys 
do not hoot after me in the street, people had for- 
gotten, or did not care.” 

The feeling of ostracism stung, but could not de- 
grade, a nature like hers. She withdrew more and 
more into herself, turned her hands to such work 
as she could find to do, and went her way again, 
stifling as best she might the anguished cry which 
sometimes would rise to her lips : 

“ What does God mean by it ? ” 

Few saw the beauty of those deep, clear eyes 
and pathetic lips, or the splendor of her burnished 
hair, or the fine curves of her tall, upright figure. 
She was only odd, and “queer looking” — only 
Lilly O’Connell ; very pleasant of speech, and 
quick at her needle, and useful at picnics and 
church fairs, and in case of sickness or emergencies 
of any kind, — but Lilly O’Connell still, — or “ Tiger- 
Lily,” for the old name had never been altogether 
laid aside. 

Ten years passed by. The good people of 
Ridgemont were fond of alluding to the remark- 
able progress and development made by their pic- 
turesque little town during the past decade, but in 


17 


Tiger -Lily, 

reality the change was not so great. A few new 
dwellings, built in the modern efflorescent style, 
had sprung up, to the discomfiture of the prim, 
square houses, with dingy white paint and dingier 
green blinds, which belonged to another epoch ; a 
brick block, of almost metropolitan splendor, cast 
its shadow across the crooked village street, and a 
soldiers’ monument, an object of special pride and 
reverence, adorned the centre of the small com- 
mon, opposite the Hide and Leather Bank and the 
post-office. 

Beside these, a circulating library, a teacher of 
china-painting and a colored barber were casually 
mentioned to strangers, as proofs of the slightness 
of difference in the importance of Ridgemont and 
some other towns of much more pretension. 

Over the old Horton homestead hardly a shadow 
of change had passed. It presented the same ap- 
pearance of prosperous middle age. The great 
elms about it looked not a day older ; the hydran- 
geas on the door-step flowered as exuberantly; 
the old-faShioned roses bloomed as red, and white, 
and yellow, against the mossy brick walls ; the 
flower-plots were as trim, and the rustic baskets 
of moneywort flourished as green, as in the days 
when Mrs. Horton walked among them, and 
tended them with her own hands. She had lain 
with her busy hands folded these five years, in 
the shadow of the Horton monument, between the 


i8 


Tiger- Lily, 

grave of Dr. Jared Horton and a row of lessening 
mounds which had been filled many, many years — 
the graves of the children who were born — and had 
died — before Roger’s birth. 

A great quiet had hung about the place for 
several years. The blinds upon the front side had 
seldom been seen to open, except for weekly air- 
ings or semi-annual cleanings. 

But one day in mid-summer the parlor windows 
are seen wide open, the front door swung back, 
and several trunks, covered with labels of all col- 
ors, and in several languages, are standing in the 
large hall. 

An unwonted stir about the kitchen and stable, 
a lively rattling of silver and china in the dining- 
room, attest to some unusual cause for excitement. 
The cause is at once manifest as the door at the 
end of the hall opens, and Roger Horton appears, 
against a background composed of mahogany side- 
board and the erect and vigilant figure of Nancy 
Swift, the faithful old housekeeper of his mother’s 
time. 

The handsome, manly lad had fulfilled the 
promise of his boyhood. He- was tall and full- 
chested ; a trifle thin, perhaps, and his fine face, 
now bronzed with travel, grave and thoughtful for 
his years, but capable of breaking into a smile like 
a sudden transition from a minor to a major key in 
music. 


19 


Tiger -Lily, 

He looked more than thoughtful at this moment. 
He had hardly tasted the food prepared by Nancy 
with a keen eye to his youthful predilections, and 
in the firm conviction that he must have suffered 
terrible deprivations during his foreign travels. 

Truly, this coming home was not like the com- 
ings-home of other days, when two dear faces, one 
gray-bearded and genial, the other pale and gentle- 
eyed, had smiled upon him across the comfortable 
board. The sense of loss was almost more than he 
could bear ; the sound of his own footsteps in the 
cool, empty hall smote heavily upon his heart. 

The door of the parlor stood ajar, and he pushed 
it open and stepped into the room. Everything 
was as it had always been ever since he could re- 
member — furniture, carpets, curtains, everything. 
Just opposite the door hung the portraits of his 
parents, invested by the dim half-light with a life- 
like air which the unknown artist had vainly tried 
to impart. 

Roger had not entered the room since his 
mother’s funeral, which followed close upon that of 
his father, and just before the close of his collegiate 
course. 

Something in the room brought those scenes of 
bitter grief too vividly before him. It might have 
been the closeness of the air, or, more probably, 
the odor rising from a basket of flowers which 
stood upon the centre -table. He remembered now 


20 


Tiger -Lily, 

that Nancy had mentioned its arrival while he was 
going through the ceremony of taking tea, and he 
went up to the table and bent over it. Upon a 
snowy oval of choicest flowers, surrounded by a 
scarlet border, the word ^^ Welcome ” was wrought 
in purple violets. 

The young man smiled as he read the name 
upon the card attached. He took up one of the 
white carnations and began fastening it to the lap- 
pel of his coat, but put it back at length, and with 
a glance at the painted faces, whose eyes seemed 
following his every motion, he took his hat and 
went out of the house. 

His progress through the streets of his native 
village took the form of an ovation. Nearly every 
one he met was an old acquaintance or friend. It 
warmed his heart, and took away the sting of lone- 
liness which he had felt before, to see how cordial 
were the greetings. Strong, manly grips, kind, 
womanly hand-pressures, and shy, blushing greet- 
ings from full-fledged village beauties, whom he 
vaguely remembered as lank, sun-burned little 
girls, met him at every step. 

He noticed, and was duly impressed by, the or- 
nate new dwellings, the soldiers’ monument, and 
the tonsorial establishment of Professor Comme- 
raw. But beyond these boasted improvements, it 
might have been yesterday, instead of four years 
ago, that he passed along the same street on his 


21 


Tiger -Lily. 

way to the station. Even Deacon White’s sorrel 
mare was hitched before the leading grocery-store 
in precisely the same spot, and blinking dejectedly 
at precisely the same post, he could have taken his 
oath, where she had stood and blinked on that 
morning. 

Before the tumble-down structure where, in con- 
nection with the sale of petrified candy, withered 
oranges, fly-specked literature, and ginger-pop, 
the post-office was carried on, sat that genial old 
reprobate, the post- master, relating for the hun- 
dredth time to a sleepy and indifferent audience, 
his personal exploits in the late war ; pausing, 
however, long enough to bestow upon Horton a 
greeting worthy of the occasion. 

Welcome home ! ” said Mr. Doolittle, with an 
oratorical flourish, as became a politician and a 
post-master ; “ welcome back to the land of the 
free and the home of the brave ! ” 

Whereupon he carefully seated himself on the 
precarious chair which served him as rostrum, and 
resumed his gory narrative. 

A little further on, another village worthy, Fred 
Hanniford, cobbler, vocalist, and wit, sat pegging 
away in the door of his shop, making the welkin 
ring with the inspiring strains of The Sword of 
Bunker Hill,” just as in the old days. True, the 
brilliancy of his tones was somewhat marred by the 
presence of an ounce or so of shoe-pegs in his left 


22 


Tiger -Lily. 

cheek, but this fact had no dampening effect upon 
the enthusiasm of a select, peanut-consuming audi- 
ence of small boys on the steps. 

He, too, suspended work and song to nod 
familiarly to his somewhat foreignized young 
townsman, and watched him turn the corner, fix- 
ing curious and jealous eyes upon the receding 
feet. 

^‘Who made your boots?” he remarked sotto 
voce, as their firm rap upon the plank sidewalk grew 
indistinct, which profound sarcasm having extracted 
the expected meed of laughter from his juvenile 
audience, Mr. Hanniford resumed his hammer, and 
burst forth with a high G of astounding volume. 

As young Horton came in sight of Mrs. Fairfield’s 
residence, he involuntarily quickened his steps. As 
a matter of course, he had met in his wanderings 
many pretty and agreeable girls, and, being an at- 
tractive young man, it is safe to say that eyes of 
every hue had looked upon him with more or less 
favor. It would be imprudent to venture the asser- 
tion that the young man had remained quite indif- 
ferent to all this, but Horton’s nature was more 
tender than passionate ; early associations held him 
very closely, and his boyish fancy for the widow’s 
pretty daughter had never quite faded. A rather 
fitful correspondence had been kept up, and pho- 
tographs exchanged, and he felt himself justified 
in believing that the welcome the purple violets 


Tiger -Lily. 23 

had spoken would speak to him still more eloquently 
from a pair of violet eyes. 

He scanned the pretty lawn with a pleased, ex- 
pectant glance. Flowers were massed in red, white 
and purple against the vivid green ; the fountain 
was scattering its spray ; hammocks were slung in 
tempting nooks, and fanciful wicker chairs, interwo- 
ven with blue and scarlet ribbons, stood about the 
vine-draped piazza. He half expected a girlish fig- 
ure to run down the walk to meet him, in the old 
childish way, and as. a fold of white muslin swept 
out of the open window his heart leaped ; but it 
w’as only the curtain after all, and just as he saw 
this with a little pang of disappointment, a girl’s 
figure did appear, and came down the walk to- 
ward him. It was a tall figure, in a simple dark 
dress. As it came nearer, he saw a colorless, 
oval face, with downcast eyes, and a mass of ruddy 
hair, burnished like gold, gathered in a coil under 
the small black hat. There was something proud, 
yet shrinking, in the face and in the carriage of the 
whole figure. As the latch fell from his hand the 
girl looked up, and encountered his eyes, pleased, 
friendly and a trifle astonished, fixed full upon her. 

She stopped,' and a beautiful color swept into her 
cheeks, a sudden unleaping flame filled the luminous 
eyes, and her lips parted. 

“ Why, it is Lilly O’Connell ! ” the young man 
said, cordially, extending his hand. 


24 


Tiger -Lily, 

The girl’s hand was half extended to meet his, 
but with a quick glance toward the house she drew 
it back into the folds of her black dress, bowing 
instead. 

Horton let his hand fall, a little flush showing 
itself upon his forehead. 

Are you not going to speak to me, Miss O’Con- 
nell ? ” he said, in his frank, pleasant way. “ Are 
you not going to say you are glad to see me back, 
like all the rest ?” 

The color had all faded from the girl’s cheeks and 
neck. She returned his smiling glance with an 
earnest look, hesitating before she spoke. 

I am very glad, Mr. Horton,” she said, at last, 
and, passing him, went swiftly out of sight. 

The young man stood a moment with his hand 
upon the gate, looking after her ; then turned and 
went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. 
A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him 
into a very pretty drawing-room. 

He had not waited long when Florence, preceded 
by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty 
school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so 
beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, 
and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. 
She was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain- 
tinted type, small, but so well-made and well- 
dressed as to appear much taller than she really 
was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white 


25 


Tiger -Lily, 

dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the 
delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible 
through the fine meshes. 

She had always cared for Roger, and, being full 
of delight at his return and his distinguished ap- 
pearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. 
Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger 
coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, 
sincere manners were contagious, and Florence had 
never been more charming. 

“ Tell us all about the pictures and artists and 
singers you have seen and heard,” she said, in the 
course of their lively interchange of experiences. 

“ I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and 
surgeons,” said Horton. “ You know I am not a bit 
aesthetic, and I have been studying very closely.” 

“You are determined, then, to practise medi- 
cine ? ” Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anx- 
iety in her tones than the occasion seemed to de- 
mand. 

“ I think I am better fitted for that profession 
than any other,” Horton answered. 

“Y-yes,” assented Mrs. Fairfield, doubtfully, 
looking at her daughter. 

“ I should never choose it, if I were a man,” said 
Florence, decidedly. 

“ It seems to have chosen me,” Horton said. 
“ I have not the slightest bent in any other direc- 
tion.” 


2 


26 


Tiger -Lily. 

‘‘It is such a hard life,” said Florence. “A 
doctor must be a perfect hero.” 

“ You used to be enthusiastic over heroes,” said 
Horton, smiling. 

“ I am now,” said Florence, “ but ” 

“ Not the kind who ride in buggies instead of 
on foaming chargers and wield lancets instead of 
lances,” laughed Horton, looking into the slightly- 
vexed but lovely face opposite, with a great deal 
of expression in his dark eyes. 

“ Of course you would not think of settling in 
Ridgemont,” remarked Mrs. Fairfield, blandly, 
“ after all you have studied.” 

“ I don’t see why not,” he answered. 

“ But for an ambitious young man,” began Mrs. 
Fairfield. 

“ I’m afraid I am not an ambitious young man,” 
said Horton. “ There is a good opening here, and 
the old home is very dear to me.” 

Florence was silently studying the toe of one 
small sandalled foot. 

“ Well, to be sure,” said Mrs. Fairfield, who 
always endeavored to fill up pauses in conversa- 
tion, — “to be sure, Ridgemont is improving. 
Don’t you find it changed a good deal ? ” 

“ Why, not very much,” Horton answered. 
“ Places don’t change so much in a few years as 
people. I met Lilly O’Connell as I came into your 
grounds. She has changed — wonderfully.” 


Tiger -Lily. 27 

Y-yes,” said Mrs. Fairfield, rather stiffly. “ She 
has improved. Since her father died, she has lived 
in Parson Townsend’s family. She is a very re- 
spectable girl, and an excellent seamstress.” 

Florence had gone to the window, and was look- 
ing out. 

She was very good at her books, I remember,” 
he went on. I used to think she would make 
something more than a seamstress.” 

“ I only remember her dreadful temper,” said 
Florence, in a tone meant to sound careless. “ We 
called her ‘ Tiger-Lily,’ you know.” 

“ I never wondered at her temper,” said Horton. 

She had a great deal to vex her. I suppose 
things are not much better now.” 

“Oh, she is treated well enough,” said Mrs. 
Fairfield. “ The best families in the place employ 
her. I don’t know what more she can expect, con- 
sidering that she is — a ” 

“ Off color,” suggested Horton. “ No. She can- 
not expect much more. But it is terrible — isn’t 
it ? — that stigma for no fault of hers. It must be 
* hard for a girl like her — like what she seems to 
have become.” 

“ Oh, as to that,” said Plorence, going to the 
piano and drumming lightly, without sitting down, 
“she is very independent. She asserts herself 
quite enough.” 

“ Why, yes,” broke in her mother, hastily. 


28 


Tiger -Lily, 

** She actually had the impudence to apply for a 
position as teacher of the primary school, and Par- 
son Townsend, and Hickson of the School Board, 
were determined she should have it. The ‘ Ga- 
zette ’ took it up, and for awhile Lilly was the hero- 
ine of the day. But of course she did not succeed. 
It would have ruined the school. A colored 
teacher ! Dreadful ! ” 

Dreadful, indeed,” said Horton. He rose 
and joined Florence at the piano, and a moment 
later Mrs. Fairfield was contentedly drumming 
upon the table, in the worst possible time, to her 
daughter’s performance of a brilliant waltz. 

The evening terminated pleasantly. After Hor- 
ton had gone, mother and daughter had a long 
confidential talk upon the piazza, which it is need- 
less to repeat. But at its close, as Mrs. Fairfield 
was closing the doors for the night, she might have 
been heard to say : 

“You could spend your winters in Boston, you 
know.” 

To which Florence returned a dreamy “ Yes.” 

The tranquillity of Ridgemont was this summer 
disturbed by several events of unusual local inter- 
est. Two, of a melancholy nature, were the 
deaths of good old Parson Townsend and of Dr. 
Brown, one of the only two regular physicians of 
whom the tov/n could boast. The latter event 
had the effect to bring about the beginning of 


29 


Tiger- Lily, 

young Dr. Horton’s professional career. The road 
now lay fair and open before him. His father had 
been widely known and liked, and people were 
not slow in showing their allegiance to the honored 
son of an honored father. 

Of course this event, being one of common in- 
terest, was duly discussed and commented upon, 
and nowhere so loudly and freely as in the post- 
office and cobbler’s shop, where, surrounded by 
their disciples and adherents, the respective propri- 
etors dispensed wit and wisdom in quantities suit- 
able to the occasion. 

“ He’s young,” remarked the worthy post-mas- 
ter, with a wave of his clay pipe, an’ he’s brought 
home a lot o’ new-fangled machines an’ furrin 
notions, but he’s got a good stock of Yankee com- 
mon-sense to back it all, an’ I opine he’ll do.” 

And such was the general verdict. 

His popularity was further increased by the ru- 
mor of his engagement to Miss Florence Fairfield. 
Miss Fairb^d being a native of the town, and the 
most elegant and accomplished young woman it 
had so far produced, was regarded with much the 
same feeling as the brick block and the soldiers’ 
monument ; and as she drove through the village 
streets in her pretty pony phaeton, she received a 
great deal of homage in a quiet way, particularly 
from the ntasculine portion of the community. 

“A tip-top match for the young doctor,” said 


30 


Tiger -Lily, 

one. She’s putty as a picter an’ smart as light- 
nin’, an’ what’s more, she’s got ‘ the needful.’ ” 

“Well, as to that,” said another, “Horton ain’t 
no need to look for that. He’s got property 
enough.” 

To which must be added Mr. Hanniford’s com- 
ments, delivered amidst a rapid expectoration of 
shoe-pegs. 

“She’s got the littlest foot of any girl in town, 
an’ I ought to know, for I made her shoes from the 
time she was knee-high to a grasshopper till she 
got sot on them French heels, which is a thing I ain’t 
agoin’ to countenance. She was always very fond 
o’ my singin’, too. Says she, ‘You’d ought to 
have your voice cultivated, Mr. Hanniford,’ says 
she, ‘ it’s equal, if not superior, to Waktel’s or 
Campyneeny’s, any time o’ day.’ Though,” he 
added, musingly, “as to ciiltivati7i\ I’ve been to 
more’n eight or ten singin’-schools, an’ I guess 
there ain’t much more to learn.” 

The death of Parson Townsend brought about 
another crisis in the life of Lilly O’Connell. It had 
been his express wish that she should remain an 
inmate of his family, which consisted now of a 
married son and his wife and children. But, with 
her quick intuition, Lilly saw, before a week had 
passed, that her presence was not desired by young 
Mrs. Townsend, and her resolution was at once 
taken. 


31 


Tiger -Lily. 

Through all these years she had had one true 
friend and helper— Priscilla Bullins, milliner and 
dress-maker. 

Miss Bullins was a queer little frizzed and ruffled 
creature, with watery blue eyes, and a skin like 
yellow crackle- ware. There was always a good 
deal of rice-powder visible in her scant eyebrows, 
and a frost-bitten bloom upon her cheeks which, 
from its intermittent character, was sadly open to 
suspicion, but a warm heart beat under the tight- 
laced bodice, and it was to her, after some hours 
of mental conflict, that Lilly went with her new 
trouble. Miss Bullins listened with her soul in 
arms. 

“You’ll come and stay with me; that’s just 
what you’ll do, Lilly, and Jim Townsend’s wife had 
ought to be ashamed of herself, and she a professor ! 
I’ve got a nice little room you can have all to your- 
self. It’s next to mine, and you’re welcome to it 
till you can do better. I shall be glad of your 
company, for, between you and me,” dropping her 
voice to a confidential whisper, “ I ain’t so young 
as I was, and, bein’ subject to spells in the night, 
I ain’t so fond of livin’ alone as I used to be.” 

So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss 
Bullin’s spare bedroom, and went to work in the 
dingy back shop, rounding out her life with such 
pleasure as could be found in a walk about the 
burying-ground on Sundays, in the circulating 


32 


Tiger -Lily, 

library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting, where 
her mellow voice revelled in the sweet melodies of 
the hymns, whose promises brought such comfort 
to her lonely young heart. 

From the window where she sat when at work 
she could look out over fields and orchards, and 
follow the winding of the river in and out the wil- 
low-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a 
small island separated it into two deep channels, 
which met at the lower point with a glad rush and 
tumult, to flow on again united in a deeper, 
smoother current than before. 

Along the river bank, the road ran to the cov- 
ered bridge, and across it into the woods beyond. 
And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she saw Miss 
Fairfield’s pony phaeton rolling leisurely along 
under the overhanging willows, so near that the 
voices of the occupants, for Miss Fairfield was 
never alone, now, came up to her with the cool 
river-breeze and the scent of the pines on the isl- 
and. Once, Roger Horton happened to look up, 
and recognized her with one of those grave smiles 
which always brought back her childhood and the 
barren pasture where the tiger-lilies grew ; and she 
drew back into the shadow of the curtain again. 

Doctor Horton saw Lilly O’Connell often ; he 
met her flitting through the twilight with bulky 
parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and chil- 
dren, and even at the various festivals which en- 


33 


Tiger -Lily. 

livened the tedium of the summer (where, indeed, 
her place was among the workers only), and he 
would have been glad to speak to her a friendly 
word now and then, but she gave him little chance. 
There was a look in her face which haunted him, 
and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and mourn- 
ful above the others at church or conference-meet- 
ing, thrilled him to the heart with its pathos. 
Once, as he drove along the river-side after dark, 
the voice came floating out from the unlighted win- 
dow of the shop where he so often saw her at' work, 
and it seemed to him like the note of the wood- 
thrush, singing in the solitude of some deep forest. 

Before the summer was over, something occurred 
to heighten the interest which the sight of this soli- 
tary maiden figure, moving so unheeded across 
the dull background of village life, had inspired. 

It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield’s 
grounds, for the benefit of the church of which she 
was a prominent member. There was the usual 
display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated 
booths, and pretty girls in white, A good many 
people were present, and the Ridgemont brass 
band was discoursing familiar strains. Doctor 
Horton, dropping in, in the course of the evening, 
gravitated naturally toward an imposing structure, 
denominated on the bills the Temple of Flora,” 
where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were 
disposing of iced lemonade and button-hole bou- 


2 ’ 


34 


Tiger -Lily, 

quets in the cause of religion. The place before 
the booth was occupied by a group of young men, 
who were flinging away small coin with that reck- 
less disregard of consequences peculiar to very 
youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned 
with boutonnieres at every possible point, and were 
laughing in a manner so exuberant as might, under 
other circumstances, have led to the suspicion that 
the beverage sold as lemonade contained some- 
thing of a more intoxicating nature. 

Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, 
one bare white arm extended across the green gar- 
lands which covered the frame-work. She looked 
bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the 
shoulder of the delighted youth vis-h-vis. 

Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen 
making his way toward the place. 

“We were laughing,” said the young man who 
had been talking with her, after greetings had been 
exchanged, — “we were laughing over the latest 
news. Heard it. Doctor ? ” 

Dr. Horton signified his ignorance. 

He was abstractedly studying the effect of a bunch ^ 
of red columbine nodding at a white throat just be- 
fore him. He had secured those flowers himself, 
with some trouble, that very day, during a morn- 
ing drive, and he alone knew the sweetness of the 
reward which had been his. 

“ A marriage, Doctor,” went on the youth, jo- 


35 


Tiger -Lily, 

cosely. Marriage in high life. Professor Samuel 
Commeraw to Miss Lilly O’Connell, both of Ridge- 
mont.” 

Horton looked up quickly. 

From whom did you get your information ? ” 
he asked, coolly regarding the young fellow. 

From Commeraw himself,” he answered, with 
some hesitation. 

Ah ! ” Dr. Horton returned, indifferently. ** I 
thought it very likely.” 

I don’t find it so incredible,” said Miss Fair- 
field, in her fine, clear voice. “ He is the only one 
of her own color in the town. It seems to me very 
natural.” 

Dr. Horton looked into the fair face. Was it 
the flickering light of the Chinese lanterns which 
gave the delicate features so hard and cold a look ? 

He turned his eyes away, and as he did so he 
saw that Lilly O’Connell, with three or four chil- 
dren clinging about her, had approached, and, im- 
peded by the crowd, had stopped very near the 
floral temple. A glance at her face showed that 
she had heard all which had been said concerning 
her. 

The old fiery spirit shone from her dilated eyes 
as they swept over the insignificant face of the 
youth who had spoken her name. Her lips were 
contracted, and her hand, resting on the curly head 
of one of the children, trembled violently. 


36 Tiger -Lily, 

She seemed about to speak, but as her eyes met 
those of Doctor Horton, she turned suddenly, and, 
forcing a passage through the crowd, disappeared. 

Dr. Horton lingered about the flower-booth un- 
til the increasing crowd compelled Miss Fairfield to 
to resume her duties, when he slipped away, and 
wandered aimlessly about the grounds. At last, 
near the musicians’ stand, he saw Lilly O’Connell 
leaning against a tree, while the children whom 
she had in charge devoured ice-cream and the 
music with equal satisfaction. Her whole attitude 
expressed weariness and dejection. Her face was 
pale, her eyes downcast, her lips drawn like a 
child’s who longs to weep, yet dares not. 

Not far away* he saw, hanging upon the edge of 
the crowd, the tall form of Commeraw, his eyes, 
alert and swift of glance as those of a lynx, furtively 
watching the girl, who seemed quite unconscious 
of any one’s observation. 

Some one took Horton’s attention for a moment, 
and when he looked again both Lilly, with her 
young charge, and Commeraw were no longer to 
be seen. He moved away from the spot, vaguely 
troubled and perplexed. 

The brazen music clashed in his ears the strains 
of Sweet Bye-and-Bye,” people persisted in talk- 
ing to him, and at last, in sheer desperation, he 
turned his steps toward the temple of Flora. It 
was almost deserted. The band had ceased play- 


37 


Tiger -Lily. 

ing, people were dispersing, the flowers had wilted, 
and the pretty girls had dropped ofl* one by one 
with their respective cavaliers. The reigning god- 
dess herself was leaning against a green pillar, look- 
ing, it must t>e confessed, a little dishevelled and a 
good deal out of humor, but very lovely still. 

‘'You must have found things very entertain- 
ing,’’ she remarked, languidly. “You have beer? 
gone an hour at least.” 

“ I have been discussing sanitary drainage with 
Dr. Starkey,” Horton answered, taking advantage 
of the wavering light to possess himself of one of 
the goddess’s warm white hands, and the explana- 
tion was, in a measure, quite true. 

Miss Fairfield made no other reply than to with- 
draw her hand, under the pretext of gathering up 
her muslin flounces for the walk across the lawn. 
Horton drew her white wrap over the bare arms 
and throat, and walked in silence by her side to 
the hall door. Even then he did not speak at 
once, feeling that the young lady was in no mood 
for conversation, but at last he drew the little white 
figure toward him, and said : 

“You are tired, little girl. These church fairs 
and festivals are a great nuisance. I will not come 
in to-night, but I will drive round in the morning 
to see how you have slept.” 

To his surprise, the girl turned upon him sud- 
denly, repulsing his arm. 


38 


Tiger -Lily, 

Why,” she began, hurriedly, why are you 
always defending Lilly O’Connell ? ” 

She shot the question at him with a force which 
took away his breath. She had always seemed to 
him gentleness itself. He hardly recognized her, 
as she faced him with white cheeks and blazing 
eyes. 

“ It was always so,” she went on, impetuously, 
“ever since I can remember. You have always 
been defending her. No one must speak of her as 
if she were anything but a lady. I cannot under- 
stand it, Roger !. I want to know what it means — 
the interest you show, and always have shown, in 
that — that girl ! ” 

Horton had recovered himself by this time. He 
looked into the angry face with a quiet, almost 
stern, gaze. The girl shrank a little before it, and 
this, and the quiver of her voice toward the close 
of her last sentence, softened the resentment which 
had tingled through his veins. Shame, humilia- 
tion, not for himself, but for her, his affianced wife, 
burned on his cheeks. 

What interest, Florence ? ” he said, repeating 
her words. ‘‘Just that interest which every hon- 
est man, or woman, feels in a fellow-creature who 
suffers wrongfully. Just that — and nothing more.” 

Her lips parted as if to retort, but the steadiness 
of her lover’s gaze disconcerted her. He was very 
gentle, but she felt, as she had once or twice be- 


39 


Tiger -Lily, 

fore, the quiet mastery of his stronger nature, and 
the eyes fell. He took both her hands and held 
them awhile without removing his eyes from her 
face. 

Good-night, Florence,” he said, at last, almost 
with sadness. 

She would have liked to let him see that she 
was sorry for her ill-temper, or rather for the mani- 
festation of it, but she was only overawed, not 
penitent, and bent her head to his parting kiss 
without a word. 

Two or three evenings later. Doctor Horton re- 
ceived an urgent summons from one of his patients, 
who lived at the end of a new and almost uninhab- 
ited street. A lamp at the corner of the main 
street lighted it for a short distance, beyond which 
the darkness was intense. When just opposite the 
lamp, and about to cross over, he observed a 
woman pass swiftly across the lighted space in the 
direction toward which he was himself going. 
There was no mistaking the erect figure and grace- 
ful gait — it was Lilly O’Connell. After an instant 
of wondering what could have brought her there 
at such an hour, for it was late, according to vil- 
lage customs, he changed his intention as to cross- 
ing, and kept down the other side. 

The sight of this girl brought back afresh that 
brief, unpleasant scene with Florence, which he 


40 


Tiger -Lily. 

had tried to forget, but which had recurred to him 
very often, and always with a keen sting of pain 
and shame. His faith in the woman he loved was 
so perfect ! Should hers be less in him ? For 
him there was no happiness without repose. To 
doubt, to be doubted, would end all. He walked 
on in the darkness, lost in such thoughts, and 
quite forgetting where he was, but all at once he 
became aware of other footsteps behind him, and 
involuntarily looking back, he saw, just on the 
edge of the lamp-lit space, the figure of a man — a 
tall figure, with a certain panther-like grace of 
movement. There was but one such in the town, 
that of Commeraw, the mulatto. 

The sight gave him a disagreeable shock. That 
he was following Lilly O’Connell he had no doubt. 
Could it be true, then, the rumor to which he had 
given so little credence ? He remembered, now, 
that he had seen this fellow hanging about at various 
times and places when she was present. Might it 
not have been pretence — her proud indifference and 
scornful evasion of his advances ? He asked him- 
self, with a hot flush of mortification, the same 
question which Florence had put to him. It was 
true that he had many times openly defended her. 
He had been forced to do so by that quality of his 
nature which moved him always to espouse the 
cause of the weak. Perhaps he had elevated this 
girl to a higher plane than she deserved to occupy. 


41 


Tiger-Lily, 

After all, it would not be strange if her heart, in 
its longing for sympathy, had turned toward this 
man of her dead mother’s race. Then her face, 
so sensitive, so overshadowed with sadness, came 
before him, and he could not think of it in juxta- 
position with the brutal face of Commeraw. He 
banished the thought with disgust. 

In the meantime, the man could be seen creep- 
ing along, a black shadow thrown into faint relief 
against the white sand of the overhanging bank. 
There was something furtive and stealthy in his 
actions which excited Horton’s fears. He saw 
that he had at last overtaken the girl, and he 
quickened his own pace until he was so near that 
the sound of their voices came over to him. 

“There is no other answer possible,” she was 
saying. “You must never speak to me in this 
way again.” 

She would have gone on, but the man placed 
himself before her. There was a deliberation in 
the way he did so which showed his consciousness 
of power. 

“ This is a lonesome place,” he said, with a short, 
cruel laugh. 

She made no answer. 

The man muttered an imprecation. 

“ You are not going to leave me so,” he said. 
“ Curse it ! why do you treat me so, as if I were a 
dog ? What are you more than I am ? Are you 


42 


Tiger -Lily, 

so proud because you hav*e a few more drops of 
their cursed white blood in your veins than I have ? 
What will that help you ? Do you imagine it will 
get you a white husband ? ” 

Let me pass ! ” interrupted the girl, coldly. 

You can kill me if you like. I would rather die 
than give you any other answer. Will you let me 
pass ? ” and she made another swift motion to go 
by him. 

A savage cry came from his lips. He sprang 
toward her. She made no outcry. The two 
shadows struggled for a moment in deadly silence, 
but it was only for a moment. Quick as thought, 
Horton flung himself upon the man, who, taken 
thus by surprise, loosened his hold upon the 
girl, shook himself free, and, with a fierce oath, 
fled. 

Lilly staggered back against the bank. 

Do not be afraid,” said Horton, panting. 
** The fellow will not come back.” 

“ Doctor Horton ! ” she said, faintly. 

** Yes, it is Doctor Horton. Where were you 
going? I will see you in safety.” 

I was on my way to watch with Mrs. Lap- 
ham,” she answered, in firmer tones. 

I am going there too,” said Horton. “If you 
feel able, go on, I will follow after awhile. Or will 
you go home ? ” 

She came forward, walking a little slowly. 


43 


Tiger -Lily. 

** I will go on ; she expects me.’^ 

And in a few moments she had disappeared 
from sight. 

Horton remained where she had left him for 
perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he proceeded 
on his way. An old woman admitted him to the 
house, and he went into the sick-room. Lilly 
O’Connell was sitting by the cradle of the young- 
est child, which lay across her lap. She greeted 
him with a bow, and averted her head, but the 
glimpse he had of her face showed him that it was 
not only pale, but drawn as if with physical pain. 

As he was about to leave his patient’s side he 
looked toward her again, and his eyes fell upon the 
arm which supported the child’s head. About 
the sleeve, a handkerchief, stained with blood, was 
tightly bound. 

He went over to the corner where she was sitting. 

“ Will you come into the next room ? ” he said. 

I would like to give you some directions about 
the medicine.” 

She gave him a quick, upward glance, arose, 
laid the baby in the arms of the old woman, and 
followed him mutely into the adjoining room, 
where a light was burning on the table, and stood 
before him, waiting for him to speak. 

“You are hurt,” he said, taking the bandaged 
arm in his hand. “ That fellow has wounded you.” 

“ I suppose he meant to kill me,” she answered, 



44 Tiger -Lily, 

leaning with the disengaged arm against the 
table. 

Horton unbound the handkerchief. The blood 
was oozing from a deep flesh cut below the elbow. 
With skilful fingers, he ripped open the sleeve and 
turned it back from the fair round arm. Then, 
with the appliances the country doctor has always 
at hand, he dressed the wound. When he had 
finished, Lilly drew the sleeve down and fastened 
it over the bandage. 

Horton looked into her face. She was deadly 
pale, and her hands, which had touched his once 
or twice during the operation, were like ice. 

You are weak and unstrung. You have lost 
a great deal of blood. Sit down, Miss O'Connell.’’ 

She did so, and there was a little silence. The 
young man’s nerves were still thrilling with the 
excitement of the last hour. For the moment, 
this girl — sitting there before him, this fair girl 
with her hard, cruel destiny — filled him com- 
pletely. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, at 
length. 

“ Do ? ” she repeated. “ Nothing.” 

“You will let this villain escape justice?” he 
said. “You will take no measures to protect 
yourself ? ” 

Lilly raised her head. A look of intense bitter- 
ness swept across her face. 


45 


Tiger -Lily, 

** I shall not do anything,” she said. Doctor 
Horton, you have always been good to me. As 
far back as I can remember, you have been my 
friend. I want you to promise me not to speak 
of what has happened to-night.” 

Horton bit his lips in perplexity. 

“ I do not think I have any right to make such 
a promise,” he said, after a little pause. “ This 
was an attempt at murder.” 

She rose and came close up to him. 

‘^You must promise me. Do you not see?” 
she went on, passionately. “ If I were any one 
else, it would be different — do you not under- 
stand ? To have my name dragged before the 
public — I could not bear it ! I would rather he 
killed me outright ! ” 

Doctor Horton walked the floor excitedly. 

“ It is a terrible thing,” he said. “ I cannot 
blame you, but it does not seem right. Think the 
matter over. Perhaps you will feel differently. In 
the meantime, I will do nothing without your 
consent.” 

Thank you. Doctor Horton,” she said. 

A feeble call came from the sick-room, and she 
turned away. Soon after. Doctor Horton left the 
house. 

The next day Commeraw’s shop remained 
closed, and it was discovered that he had fled 
the town. Numerous debts and embarrassments 


46 


Tiger -Lily, 

which came to light sufficiently accounted for his 
departure, and were also ample guarantee against 
his return. In this way, the question which had 
vexed Doctor Horton’s mind was unexpectedly 
settled. 

He did not see Lilly O’Connell for several days, 
but met her at last on the street in such a way 
that she could not well avoid him. 

“ It goes against my sense of justice that that 
scoundrel should escape so easily,” he said, after 
having made professional inquiries after the 
wounded arm, but at least you will now be safe,” 
and, touching his hat respectfully, he turned to 
leave her. At that instant. Miss Fairfield’s phae- 
ton dashed around the corner. The occupant 
drew the reins slightly and regarded the two with 
a flash of the turquoise eyes ; then, bowing coldly, 
she gave her horse a touch of the whip and dashed 
on again. 

When Horton appeared at Mrs. Fairfield’s that 
evening, however, Florence received him with un- 
usual sweetness, and when chided playfully for the 
coldness of her greeting on the street, replied only 
with a light laugh. 

The next morning rain was falling steadily, but 
it did not prevent Miss Fairfield from appearing in 
Miss Bullins’s shop, taut and trim in her blue flan- 
nel suit, the yellow hair and delicate rose-tinted 
face finely relieved against the black velvet lin- 


Tiger -Lily, 47 

ing of her hat. She found Lilly O’Connell in at- 
tendance and the shop otherwise unoccupied, as 
she had expected. She was very gracious. She 
brought with her a parcel containing costly linen 
and laces, which she wished made into mysterious 
garments after the imported models inclosed. 

My dresses will be made in Boston,” she 
explained, with a conscious blush, *‘but I want 
these things made under my own supervision — 
and I v^2Xi\.you to make them.” 

What was it in her crisp, clear tones which gave 
the common words so subtle an effect ? The two 
girls looked each other full in the face for a mo- 
ment. Miss Fairfield was the first to look away. 

‘‘You do your work so beautifully, you know,” 
she added, with a very sweet smile. 

There was nothing more to say, yet she saun- 
tered about the shop awhile, looking at the goods 
displayed, or out into the rainy street. 

“ I’m sorry to see you looking so badly,” she 
said, at last, turning her eyes suddenly upon the 
pale face behind the counter. “ But I don’t won- 
der, either. It is natural you should take it hard.” 

Again the gray eyes met the blue in that mute 
encounter. 

“ I don’t think I know what you mean,” said 
Lilly, her fingers tightening upon the laces she was 
folding. 

Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows. 


48 


Tiger -Lily, 

*‘0h, of course,” she went on, sympathetically, 
** of course, you don’t like to talk about it, but I’m 
sure ^ou are not in the least to blame. It was 
shameful of Commeraw to go off the way he did. 
I am really sorry for you. morning ! ” 

A moment later, when she was well outside, a 
little laugh broke from her lips. It had been 
very well done — even better than she had meant to 
do it. 

The new minister, a susceptible young man, 
meeting her at this moment, thought he had never 
seen his fair parishioner looking so charming. 

Just after, he was equally struck by another face, 
framed in reddish-golden hair, which was gazing 
out from the milliner’s window at the murky sky. 
Its set, hopeless expression startled him. 

‘‘ What a remarkable face ! ” he reflected. It 
is that girl whose voice I noticed the other even- 
ing.” And, being a well-meaning young man, he 
mentally added, “ I really must speak with her, 
next conference-meeting.” 

Summer passed tranquilly away, autumn ran its 
brief course ; and in November, when the days 
were getting toward their shortest and dreariest, 
something happened which startled quiet Ridge- 
mont out of the even tenor of its way. The small- 
pox broke out among the operatives in the paper- 
mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as 
to produce a universal panic. The streets were al- 


49 


Tiger- Lily, 

most deserted ; houses were darkened, as if by 
closed shutters one might shut out the fatal guest. 
Those who were compelled to go about, or whose 
social instinct overcame their fear, walked the 
streets with a subdued and stealthy air, as if on the 
lookout for an ambushed foe. 

The village loafers were fewer in number, and 
their hilarity was forced and spasmodic. Jokes of 
a personal nature still circulated feebly, but seemed 
to have lost their point and savor, and the laughter 
which followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford 
was visibly depressed, and the sallies which his 
position as local humorist compelled him to utter 
were of a ghastly description. He still endeav- 
ored to enliven his labors with his favorite ditty, 
but it had lost perceptibly in force and spirit. 

Mr. Doolittle, the postmaster, bore himself with 
a dignified composure truly admirable, going fish- 
ing more persistently and smoking more incessant- 
ly than ever. 

*‘What you want, boys,” he remarked, with 
great earnestness, to the few faithful retainers 
whom the potent spell of gingerpop rendered in- 
sensible to other considerations, — what you want 
is to take plenty of exercise in the open air, and 
smoke freely. Tobacco is a great — a— prophylac- 
tic.” 

Meetings of citizens were held, and all the usual 
sanitary means adopted and put in execution. 

3 


50 


Tiger -Lily. 

An uninhabited farm-house, whose rightful owner 
was in some unknown part of the world, was chos- 
en for hospital uses, and thither all victims of 
the disease were carried at once. From the begin- 
ning, Dr. Horton had been most prompt and 
active in suggesting prudential measures, and in 
seeing them carried out. By universal consent, 
he was invested with full powers. Dr. Starkey, 
the only other physician, on the ground of failing 
health, willingly submitted to the situation. The 
young physician’s entire energies were aroused. 
He worked indefatigably, sparing neither strength 
.nor pocket ; for among the victims were several 
heads of families, whose sickness — and, in a few 
cases, whose death — left want and misery behind 
them. 

One of the greatest obstacles encountered was 
the scarcity of nurses, most of those responding to 
the call becoming themselves victims in a few days. 
Two men only — veteran soldiers — were equal to 
the occasion, and acted in multifarious capacities — 
as drivers of the ambulance, housekeepers, cooks, 
nurses, undertakers, and grave-diggers. 

On the evening when the certainty of the out- 
break was established. Dr. Horton, after a day of 
excessive labor, went around to Mrs. Fairfield’s. 
It was a dark, rainy evening, and the house 
seemed strangely cheerless and silent. A faint 
light shone from one upper window, and he fancied. 


51 


Tiger -Lily, 

as he reached the steps, that he saw a girlish figure 
leaning against the window-sash. The housemaid 
who admitted him, after a second ring, did so with 
a hesitating and constrained air, eyed him askance 
as she set her lamp upon the parlor table, and re- 
treated hastily. 

He was kept waiting, too, as it seemed to him, 
an unnecessarily long time. He was tired and a 
little unstrung. He was in that mood when the 
touch of a warm, tender hand is balm and cordial 
at once, and the delay fretted him. He could hear 
muffled footfalls over his head, and the murmur of 
voices, as he wandered about the room, taking up 
various small articles in a listless way, to throw 
them down impatiently again ; pulling about the 
loose sheets of music on the piano, and wondering 
why so lovely a creature as Florence need to be so 
scrupulously exact about her toilet, with an impa- 
tient lover chafing and fretting not twenty paces 
away. But at last there was a sound of descending 
footsteps, a rustling of skirts, and the door opened 
to admit — Mrs. Fairfield. She, at all events, had 
not been spending the precious moments at her toi- 
let-table. Something must have thrown her off her 
guard. She was negligent in her attire, and cer- 
tain nameless signs of the blighting touch of Time 
were allowed to appear, it may be safely asserted 
for the first time, to the eyes of mortal man. She 
was also flustered in manner, and, after giving Dr. 


52 


Tiger -Lily, 

Horton the tips of her cold fingers, retreated to the 
remotest corner of the room, and sank into an easy- 
chair. He noticed as she swept by him that her 
person exhaled camphor like a furrier’s shop. 

“It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she murmured, plain- 
tively, holding a handkerchief saturated with that 
drug before her face. “ Perfectly dreadful ! ” 

Dr. Horton was at first puzzled, and then, as the 
meaning of her remark came to him, a good deal 
amused. He had not felt like laughing, all day ; 
but now he was obliged to smile, in the palm of 
his hand, at the small, agitated countenance of his 
future mother-in-law, seen for the first time with- 
out “war-paint or feathers.” 

“ It is certainly a misfortune,” he said, reassur- 
ingly ; “ but it is not wise to become excited. 
The disease is confined at present to the lower part 
of the town, and, with the precautions which are 
to be taken, it will hardly spread beyond it.” 

Mrs. Fairfield shook her head incredulously. 
“There’s no telling,” she murmured, sniffing at 
her handkerchief with a mournful air. 

“ I have only a few moments to stay,” the young 
man said, after a slight pause. “ I have to attend 
a' citizens’ meeting. Is not Florence well ? ” 

‘‘ Y-yes, she is well,” came in hesitating and 
muffled accents from behind the handkerchief. 
“ She is not f//, but she is terribly upset by the 
state of things, poor child ! She has such a horror 


53 


Tiger -Lily, 

of disease ! Why, she can’t bear to come near me 
when I have one of my sick headaches. So sensi- 
tive, you know. So ” 

A light had gradually been breaking upon Hor- 
ton’s mind. He colored, and stepped forward a 
little. He had not been asked to sit down, and 
was still in overcoat and gloves. 

‘^I think,” he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fair- 
field full in the face, — I suppose I know what you 
mean. Florence will not come down. She is 
afraid to — to see me,” 

Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red 
spot burned in her sallow cheek. 

*‘You must not think strange of it, Roger,” 
she began, volubly. “You know how delicately 
organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable. 
And it would be such a misfortune — with her com- 
plexion ! ” 

Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the 
room. He was not apt to speak on impulse, and 
he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of 
Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender 
face looked out upon him with the soft, beguiling 
smile about the small, curved lips, which had be- 
come so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of 
gorgeous sumac, which he had gathered for her 
one heavenly day, not long ago ; and on the piano- 
rack stood the song she had taught him to believe 
the sweetest song in all the world : 


54 


Tiger- Lily, 


** Du bist wie eine Blume, 
So schon, so hold, so rein.’’ 


He looked at the face again. She was ** like a 
flower.” How could he have found it in his heart 
to blame her, even by the remotest thought ? 

I’m sure,” came the plaintive voice again, 
“you ought not to blame her. I think it’s per- 
fectly natural.” 

Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful 
smile. 

“ Yes, it is quite natural. Of course J have 
taken every precaution ; but it was wrong of me 
to come without finding out how she felt. Tell 
her I will not come again until ” — he paused, with 
an unpleasant feeling in his throat — “ until she 
wishes me to come.” 

“Well, I am sure,” said Mrs. Fairfield, rising 
with an alacrity which betrayed how great was her 
relief, “you must know what a trial it is to her, 
Roger. The poor girl feels so badly. You are 
not angry ? ” giving her hand, but holding the 
camphorated handkerchief between them. 

“No,” Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant 
fingers a moment, “ not at all angry.” 

He went away into the outer darkness, walking 
a little heavily. The house-door shut behind him 
with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he went 
down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping 


Tiger-Lily. 55 

woodbine-spray sharply against his cheek, giving 
him a curiously unpleasant thrill. 

When he was part way down the walk, he 
looked back. At the upper window the girlish 
figure was still visible, the face still pressed against 
the pane. His heart bounded at the sight, and 
then sank with a sense of remoteness and loss for 
which, a moment later, he chided himself bitterly. 

Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed 
Roger was off the grounds, when she threw open 
all the windows in the room, sprinkled everything 
liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to 
her daughter. 

She found Florence standing at the window 
where she had left her. 

What did he say?” she asked, without look- 
ing around. 

“ Oh, he was very reasonable,” Mrs. Fairfield 
answered, seizing the camphor-bottle from the 
bureau, “ very, indeed. He said it was wrong in 
him to have come under such circumstances, and he 
would not come again until the danger was over. 
Roger always was so sensible.” 

Tears rolled from the girl’s eyes down over her 
blue cashmere wrapper, and she bit her lips to 
keep back the sobs which threatened to break out. 

Hannah says three more cases were reported 
to-night,” said her mother, re-entering, after a 
short absence. 


56 Tiger -Lily. 

An exclamation escaped the girl’s lips, and she 
wrung her fingers nervously. 

“ We’d better go, hadn’t we? ” said Mrs. Fair- 
field. 

“No!” cried the girl. “Yes! Oh, I don’t 
know ! I don’t know ! ” and she threw herself 
upon the bed, crying hysterically. 

The evil news being corroborated by the milk- 
man next morning, led to another conference be- 
tween mother and daughter, the result of which 
was that the following notes awaited Dr. Horton 
on his return from an exhausting day’s work : 

“ My Dearest Roger : Do not be ioo much hurt or shocked to 
hear that mother and I have left town on the 3.30 train. We think 
it best. It is hard, of course ; but the separation will be easier than 
if we were in the same place. I assure you, dear Roger, it pains me 
to go, dreadfully ; but I cannot bear such a strain upon my nerves. 
Do, dearest, take care of yourself — though, of course, you won’t take 
the disease. Doctors never do, I believe. I don’t see why, I’m sure. 

“ Oh, how I wish you had settled in Boston, or some large place, 
where your practice would have been among first -class people only. 
Those low mill people are always breaking out with some horrid 
thing or other. It is too bad. We are going to stay with Aunt 
Kitty, in Boston. She has been wanting me to spend the winter 
with her. She is very gay, but of course, dearest, I shall have no 
interest in anything. Of course you will write. 

“ Your own, as ever, 

“ F. F.” 

Doctor Horton read this letter twice before 
opening the other, which was from Mrs. Fairfield 
herself, and ran as follows : 


57 


Tiger -Lily, 

“My Dear Roger : I am sure you will not blame me for tak- 
ing our darling Flossie out of harm’s way, nor her for going. As I 
told her last night, you always were so sensible. The poor child has 
been in such a state, you’ve no idea ! We feel real anxious about 
you. Do take every precaution, for Flossie’s sake, though they say 
doctors never take diseases. Do wear a camphor-bag somewhere 
about you. I always did wish you had chosen the law — it is so 
much nicer. Of course Flossie will expect letters, but don’t you 
think you had better soak the paper and envelopes in carbolic acid 
beforehand ? They say it’s very efficacious. 

“ Yours, affectionately, 

“A. Fairfield. 

“ P. S. — You have no idea how the darling child’s spirits have 
risen since we began packing. She is quite another creature. 

“ A. F.” 

Doctor Horton smiled as he read, but as he put 
both notes away in his desk, his face became grave 
and sad again. 

It is perfectly natural,” he said to himself, as 
he went down to his lonely tea. Perfectly so, 
and I am glad she has gone. But ” 

The terrible disease whose presence had sent 
such a thrill of horror through the quiet little town 
had been raging for two weeks, and though the in- 
evitable rebound from the first pressure of dread 
was making itself universally felt, as a topic of con- 
versation it had lost none of its charms. 

On a wild, wet afternoon, Lilly O’Connell sat in 
the stuffy work-room sacred to the mysteries of 
making and trying on the wonderful productions 
3 * 


=1 


58 Tiger -Lily, 

of Miss Bullins’s scissors and needle. She was 
sewing the folds upon a dress of cheap mourning, 
while Miss Bullins sat opposite with lap-board and 
scissors, her nimble tongue outrunning the latter 
by long odds. 

“What’s friends she was saying, “ if they 

aint goin’ to stand by you when the pinch comes ? 
Folks that’s got husbands and lovers and friends a 
plenty don’t realize their blessin’s. As for Flor- 
ence Fairfield, it makes me ashamed of bein’ a 
woman — the way that girl did ! They say she 
wouldn’t even see Roger Horton to bid him good- 
by. I never heard the like ! ” 

Lilly turned her head toward the window, per- 
haps because the dress in her hands was black, and 
the light dull. 

“ They say he’s workin’ himself to death for all 
them poor people, and he aint got nobody — no 
sister nor mother — to nurse him up when he comes 
home all tuckered out ; though Nancy Swift thinks 
a sight of him, and she’ll do her duty by him, I 
make no doubt. He’s just like his father, and he 
was a good man. Florence Fairfield don’t deserve 
her privileges. I’m afeard.” 

The street door opened, and with a gust of cold 
wind entered Widow Gatchell, the village “ Sairey 
Gamp.” She was an elderly woman, tall, stiff and 
dry as a last year’s mullein-stalk. Her dark, wrin- 
kled face was fixed and inexpressive, but the small 


59 


Tiger -Lily. 

black eyes were full of life. She was clothed in 
rusty garments, and carried a seedy carpet-sack in 
her hand. 

“How d’ye do?’* she said, in a dry voice, 
dropping on to the edge of a chair. “ I jest come 
in to tell ye, if ye was drove^ ’taint no matter about 
my bunnit. I sha’n’t want it right away.” 

“ Why not ? ” said Miss Bullins, looking up. 

“ I’mgoin’ to the pest-house nussin’ to-morrow,** 
returned the old woman, in the same quiet tone. 

“ Good land ! Sarah Gatchell ! ” cried Miss 
Bullins, upsetting her lap-board. “ Aint you *most 
afraid ? ” 

A quaint smile flitted across the widow’s face. 

“ What ’d I be afeared of,” she said, “ ’s old ’n* 
homely ’s I be ? The small-pox aint agoin’ to 
touch me. I’d ’a’ gone a week ago, but I couldn’t 
leave Mis’ Merrill, an’ her baby not a week old. 
I’ve jess been a-talkin’ with Dr. Horton,” she went 
on. “ He says they’re sufferin’ for help. They’s 
three sick women an’ two children, an’ not a wo- 
man in the house to do a thing for ’em. They’ve 
been expectin’ two nusses from the city, but they 
aint come. Seems to me ’taint jest right fur 
men-folks to be fussin’ ’round sick women an’ 
childern.” 

“ Oh my, it’s awful ! ” sighed Miss Bullins, pin- 
ning her pattern crooked in her distress. 

“Not a woman there ?” said Lilly O’Connell, 


6o Tiger-Lily, 

who had been listening with her hands idle in her 
lap. 

‘‘There’ll be one there in the mornin',” said the 
widow, rising to go. “ I’d ’a’ gone to-night, but I 
couldn’t be o’ much use till I’d gone ’round the 
house by daylight, an’ got the hang o’ things.” 

“ Wall, you’ve got good grit, Sarah,” said the 
milliner, with enthusiasm. “You’re as good as 
half a dozen common women. I declare, I’d go 
myself, but I shouldn’t be a bit o’ use. I should 
catch it in a day. I was always a great one for 
catchin’ diseases.” 

“ Aint ye well?” said Mrs. Gatchell, turning 
suddenly toward Lilly. “Ye look kind o’ peaked. 
I guess ye set still too much.” 

“ I am perfectly well,” said Lilly. 

“Ye be? Wall, sewin’ is confinin’. Good- 
by.” 

Lilly had no appetite for her tea, and immedi- 
ately after she put on her cloak and hat, and went 
out. The wind had gone down as the sun set, 
the rain had ceased, and a few pale stars were 
struggling through the thin, vapory clouds. 

The streets were very quiet, and she met but few 
people. The choir in the Orthodox Church were 
rehearsing, their voices ringing out clear and not in- 
harmonious in a favorite hymn. She stopped, and 
bowing her head upon one of the square wooden 
posts, waited until the hymn closed. Then she 


6i 


Tiger -Lily, 

went on her way. It was quite dark when she 
reached the end of her walk — the residence of Dr. 
Starkey. She seized the brass knocker with a 
firm hand, and was shown into the office. In a few 
moments Dr. Starkey entered. 

He was an old-school physician, and an old- 
school gentleman as well. He would have consid- 
ered it indecent to appear before the world in any 
other garb than a broadcloth swallow-tail coat of 
ancient date, and with his long neck wrapped in 
white lawn nearly to the point of suffocation. He 
entered the room, and bowed with courtly gallant- 
ry on seeing a feminine figure standing by the 
table ; but, as Lilly looked up and the lamp-light 
fell upon her face and hair, there was a perceptible 
congealing of his manner. 

** Miss — a he began. 

I am Lilly O’Connell,’' she said, simply. 

‘‘ Oh — a — yes ! Miss O’Connell. Hm ! Sit 
down. Miss O’Connell, — sit down 1 ” he added, ob- 
serving her closely from under his shaggy brows. 

The girl remained standing, but the doctor seat- 
ed himself before the glowing grate, and placed 
himself in an attitude of professional attention. 

You are — indisposed ? ” he asked, presently, 
as she remained silent. 

No ; I am quite well,” she answered ; and 
then, after a little pause, during which her color 
mounted and faded, she continued : “I have heard 


62 


Tiger -Lily. 

that there is need of more help at the hospital, and 
I came to ask you to take me as nurse, or anything 
you most need.” 

Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were 
fixed eagerly upon the doctor’s face. 

■ He turned square about, the withered, purple- 
veined hands clutching the arms of his chair tight- 
ly, a kind of choking sound issuing from his ban- 
daged throat. 

Will you say that again ? ” he asked abruptly, 
staring with raised eyebrows at the pale, earnest 
face. 

Lilly repeated what she had said, more firmly. 

Good heavens ! ” ejaculated the old man, 
measuring the girl from head to foot slowly. 

Child,” he said, after a pause, “ do you know 
what you are talking about ? ” 

I think so,” the girl answered, quietly. 

“ No, you do not ! ” the old man said, almost 
brusquely. It is a place to try the nerves of the 
strongest man, to say nothing of a woman’s. It is ^ 
no place for a girl — no place.” 

“ I am not afraid,” the girl said, her voice break- 
ing. “ They say I am good in sickness, and I will 
do any kind of work. It is dreadful to think of 
those poor little children and women, with no one 
to do anything for them but men. Oh, do not re- 
fuse ! ” she cried, coming nearer and holding out 
her hands entreatingly. 


Tiger -Lily. 63 

The doctor had fidgeted in his chair, uttering a 
variety of curious, inarticulate exclamations while 
she was speaking. 

“ But, child,” he repeated, earnestly, “ it would 
be as much as your life is worth to enter the house. 
You would come down in a week. You might 
die ! ” 

Lilly looked up into the mottled old face, and 
smiled sadly. 

I am not afraid,” she said again, and there is 
no one to care very much. Even if I should die, 
it would not matter.” 

Dr. Starkey reflected, rubbing one shrivelled fin- 
ger up and down the bridge of his nose. He knew 
how woman’s help was needed in that abode of 
pestilence and death. He looked at the white, 
supple hands clasped over the gray cloak before 
him, and thought of the work which they would be 
required to perform, then shook his head slowly, 
and rose. 

**No,” he said, I cannot consent.” 

Lilly made a motion as if to , speak, but he raised 
his hand deprecatingly. 

“ It would be as bad as murder,” he went on. 

I respect your motive. Miss O’Connell, I do, in- 
deed ; but you are too young and too — a — deli- 
cate for the undertaking. Don’t think of it any 
more.” 

He took one of the hands which dropped at her 


64 


Tiger -Lily. 

side and held it in his glazed palm, looking kindly 
into the downcast face. He knew the girl’s whole 
history. He had been one of the fiercest oppo- 
nents of her application for a teacher’s place, and 
from conscientious motives solely, as he believed ; 
but he remembered it now with sharp regret. 
There was nothing in this fair and womanly figure 
to inspire antipathy, surely. For the first time, a 
realizing sense of her solitary life came to him, and 
he was pained and sorry. He wanted to be very 
kind to h^, but felt strangely unable to express 
himself. 

Don’t say no one would care what befell you,” 
he began, his gruff voice softening. ‘^A young 
woman of your — a — attractions should have many 
friends. Consider me one. Miss O’Connell,” he 
continued, with a blending of the sincere and the 
grandiose in his manner, — “ consider me a friend 
from this day, and let me thank you again for your 
offer. It was very praiseworthy of you, very.” 

Lilly bowed — she could not trust herself to 
speak — and went away. 

Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office sev- 
eral times, raised and lowered the flame of the 
lamp, poked the fire, looked out into tffie starlit 
night, and, with a fervent Bless my soul ! how 
extraordinary ! ” settled himself for his customary 
nap over the Boston paper. 

Lilly hurried home through the silent streets. 


Tiger -Lily, 65 

Miss Bullins’s shop was empty of customers, and 
she herself, her hair bristling with crimping-pins 
and curl-papers, was putting things in order for 
the night. She studied Lilly’s face with watchful 
anxiety, as she joined in her labors. 

I hope to gracious she aint cornin’ down 
sick ! ” she reflected. You aint got backache 
and pains in your limbs, have you ? ” she inquired, 
with thinly veiled anxiety. 

Lilly laughed. 

No, Miss Bullins ; nothing of the kind.” 

I thought you looked kind o’ queer L said the 
good creature, coloring. 

I am only a little tired ; not sick.” 

She came and stood by the old maid’s chair, as 
she sat warming her feet at the stove, and laid her 
hand on the thin gray hair. 

‘‘ Good-night, Miss Bullins.” 

Good-night, dear. Hadn’t you better drink a 
cup of pepper-tea before you go to bed 1 ” 

No, thank you ; I am only tired.” 

She sat by the window of her little bedroom 
over the shop a long time before lighting her 
lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its 
surface gfeaming here and there faintly through 
the leafless branches of the willows. Overhead, 
the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses along 
its banks were already dark and silent. At some 
involuntary movement, her hand fell upon a soft 


66 


Tiger -Lily, 

white mass of needle work which strewed the table 
near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. 
She rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace- 
trimmed garment, and made it into a parcel with 
some others which she took from a drawer, and 
went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the 
early morning found her asleep, with a peaceful 
smile upon her face. 

The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, 
for let Death stalk as he will, people must have 
their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at 
times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew with- 
out cessation, mixing millinery and misery in 
strange confusion. 

You don’t say that’s Mis’ Belden’s bonnet, with 
all them flowers on it ? Well, I never ! And she 
a member ! ” 

“ Why, you’re a member, too, ain’t you. Mis’ Al- 
len ? ” says another, with a glance at the first speak- 
er’s head, where feathers of various hues waved 
majestically. 

“ Oh, you mean my feathers ?” was the spirited 
answer. Feathers flowers is different things. 
You must draw the line somewhere, an’ I draw it 
at feathers.” * 

“They say one o’ the women died up to the pest- 
house yesterday,” said one woman, in the midst 
of an earnest discussion as to the comparative be- 
comingness of blue roses and crimson pansies. 


Tiger -Lily, 67 

Dear me ! ” said Miss Bullins, compassion- 
ately, an’ not a woman there to lay her out ! 
Sarah Gatchell didn’t go up till to-day.” 

“ They don’t lay ’em out,” remarked the other, 
unconcernedly, holding a brilliant pansy against 
her bilious countenance. “ They roll ’em up in 
the sheet they die on, and bury ’em in the pasture.” 

Lilly’s hands trembled over the bonnet she was 
lining. 

Well, good-day. Miss Bullins. I guess I’d 
better take the roses. I’m most too old for red. 
Get it done if you can. Good-day.” 

It went on so all day. At one time there was a 
rush for the window. 

“ It’s Doctor Horton ! ” cried a pretty girl. Oh 
my ! Ain’t he sweet ? He’s handsomer than ever, 
since he got so pale. I don’t see how in the world 
Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say 
she’s afraid to have him write to her.” 

“ She loves her good looks more’n she does him, 
I guess,” said another. 

“ And they to be married in the spring,” said 
Miss Bullins, pathetically. “ Lilly, here, was mak- 
ing her underclo’se, and they’re a sight to see, — all 
hand-made, and so much lace in ’em that it ain’t 
modest, I do declare ! ” 

“ If she got her deserts she wouldn’t have no use 
for weddin’ clo’se,” said another, with acerbity ; 
“ not if /was Roger Horton.” 


68 


Tiger -Lily, 

“Wall, you ain’t,” said her companion, drily, 
“ an’ he ain’t no different from other men, I guess.’’ 

Lilly worked on with feverish haste. About four 
o’clock she rose and went out, pausing an instant 
at the door, and looking back. Miss Bullins, in- 
tent upon some button-holes for which every mo- 
ment of daylight was needed, did not look up. 
Lilly closed the door, and went up to her room. 

It was small and simple, but it was the best she 
had known. There were some innocent efforts at 
decoration, a daintiness about the bed, a few books 
on hanging shelves, and a pretty drapery at the one 
window. She looked around with a sinking heart. 
There was a small writing-desk upon the table, and 
she went to it and wrote a few lines, which she 
sealed and directed. She packed a few articles in 
a satchel, put on her cloak and hat, and stole down 
the stairs. 

Choosing the quietest street, she walked rapidly 
through the village until the last house was passed, 
and the open country lay before her, bare and 
brown and desolate, except for the blue hills in 
the distance, which, summer or winter, never lost 
their beauty. 

Two or three farmers, jogging homeward with 
their week’s supplies, passed her, and one offered 
her a lift as far as she was going, which she de- 
clined. 

A mile from the village, a road turned off to the 


Tiger -Lily, 69 

left, winding through barren fields, until lost in the 
pine woods. As she turned into this, a man driv- 
ing toward the village reined in and called to her, 
warningly : 

“ The pest-house is up yonder ! 

She merely bowed and kept on. The man stared 
a moment, and whipped up his horse again. It 
was dark in the woods, and chilly, but she felt no 
fear, not even when the sere bushes by the way-side 
rustled, or twigs snapped as if beneath the tread of 
some living creature. 

As she came out into comparative light she saw 
a buggy driven rapidly toward her. She recog- 
nized its occupant at once, and with a quick heart- 
throb sprang behind a clump of young pines, and 
dropped upon her knees. 

Dr. Horton drove by, his face turned toward her 
place of concealment. He did not know that any 
human eye was upon him, and the heaviness of his 
spirit appeared unrepressed in every feature. His 
eyes followed listlessly the irregular outline of the 
way-side walls and bushes, but it was evident that 
his thoughts were not of surrounding things, other- 
wise he must have seen the crouching figure and 
the white face pressed against the rough bark of 
the tree whose trunk she clasped. 

The girl’s eyes followed him until he was lost to 
sight in the woods. Then she came out and pur- 
sued her way. 




70 


Tiger -Lily, 

A curve in the road brought her in sight of the 
house now devoted to hospital uses. It was a two- 
story farm-house, black with age, shutterless and 
forsaken-looking. Over it hung the cloud of a 
hideous crime. A few years before, the owner, 
led on by an insane passion, had murdered his aged 
wife in her bed. The sequel had been a man’s life 
ended in prison, a girl’s name blasted, a dishonored 
family, a forsaken homestead, — for the son, to whom 
the property had fallen, had gone away, leaving no 
trace behind him. It had stood for years as the 
murderer had left it ; its contents had been un- 
touched by hurnan hands ; the hay had rotted in 
the barn ; the fields were running waste. The very 
road itself was avoided, and the old wheel-ruts 
were almost effaced by grass and weeds. Swallows 
has possessed themselves of the cold, smokeless 
chimneys and sunken, mossy eaves ; vagrant cats 
prowled about the moldering mows and empty 
mangers. The old well-sweep pointed like a gaunt, 
rigid finger toward heaven. The little strips of 
flower-beds beneath the front windows were choked 
with grass, but the red roses and pinks and colum- 
bines which the old woman had loved, still grew 
and bloomed in their season, and cast their petals 
about the sunken door-stone, and over the crooked 
path and neglected grass. 

There were no flowers now, — only drifting masses 
of wet brown leaves. The setting sun had just 


71 


Tiger -Lily, 

turned the windows into sheets of blood, and down 
in the pasture could be seen the rough clods of 
several new-made graves. The silence was abso- 
lute. Faint columns of smoke, rising from the 
crumbling chimneys, were the only signs of human 
presence. 

A tremor shook the girl from head to foot, and 
she ceased walking. After all, she was young and 
strong, and the world was wide ; life might hold 
something of sweetness for her yet. It was not 
too late. She half turned,— but it was only for a 
moment, and her feet were on the door-step, and 
her hand on the latch. 

She turned a last look upon the outer world, — 
the bare fields, the leafless woods, the blue hills, 
the fading sky. A desperate yearning toward it 
all made her stretch out her hands as if to draw 
it nearer for a last farewell. Then from within 
came the piteous cry of a sick child, and she raised 
the latch softly *and entered the house. The air of 
the hall smote her like a heavy hand, coming as 
she did from the cool outer air ; but guided by the 
cry, which still continued, she groped her way up 
the bare, worn stairs, pushed open a door, and en- 
tered. 

The child’s voice covered the sound of her en- 
trance and, sickened by the foul air, she had 
leaned for some moments against the wall before 
Widow Gatchell, who was holding the child across 


72 


Tiger- Lily, 

her knee, turned and saw her. The old woman's 
hard, brown features stiffened with surprise, her 
lips parted without sound. 

“ I have come to help you," said Lilly, putting 
down her satchel and coming forward. 

“ Who sent ye ? " the widow asked; shortly. 

“Nobody. I offered my services, but Dr. 
Starkey refused to let me come. I knew you 
would not send me away if I once got here, and so 
I came." 

“ What was folks thinkin' of to let ye come ? " 
asked the old woman again. 

“ Nobody knew it," Lilly answered. 

“Wall," the widow said, “ye had no sort o' 
business to come, though the Lord knows they’s 
need enough of help." 

“ Perhaps He sent me, Sarah," the girl said, 
gently. “ Oh, the poor, poor baby ! Let me 
take it." 

Widow Gatchell’s keen eyes swept the girl’s 
compassionate face with a searching gaze. She 
rose stiffly and laid the child in her arms. 

“ There ! " she said, drawing a long breath. 
“ You're in for it now, Lilly O’Connell, and may 
the Lord have mer^y on ye ! " 

When Dr. Horton entered the pest-house in the 
morning, the first person he encountered was Lilly 
O’Connell, coming through the hall with a tray in 
her hands. In her closely fitting print dress and 


73 


Tiger -Lily. 

wide apron, the sleeves turned back from her 
smooth, strong arms, her face earnest, yet cheer- 
ful, she was the embodiment of womanly charity 
and sweetness. He started as though he saw a 
spectre. 

■•‘.Good heavens ! ” he said ; “ how came you 
here ? Who — who permitted you to come here ? ” 

“ No one,’’ said Lilly, supporting the waiter on 
the post at the foot of the stairs. “ I just came. 
I asked Dr. Starkey to take me as nurse, but he 
refused.” 

I know, I know,” said the young man. He 
stepped back and opened the door, letting in the 
crisp morning air. “ But why did you come ? It 
is a terrible place for you.” 

“ I came to be of use,” she answered, smiling. 
“ I hope I am useful. Ask Mrs. Gatchell. She 
will tell you that I am useful, I am sure.” 

Horton’s face expressed pain and perplexity. 

“It is wrong — all wrong,” he said. “Where 
were your friends ? Was there no one who cared 
for you, no one that you care for, enough to keep 
you from this wild step ? ” 

She looked up into his face, and, for one brief 
moment, something in her deep, luminous eyes 
chained his gaze. A soft red spread itself over 
her cheeks and neck. She shook her head slowly, 
and taking up the tray, went on up the stairs. 

Miss Bullins found the little note which Lilly 
4 


74 


Tiger -Lily. 

had left for her, when, as no response came to her 
repeated summons to tea, she mounted the stairs 
to see what had happened. 

She read the hastily written lines with gathering 
tears. 

“You can get plenty of milliners and seamstresses; but those 
poor women and children are suffering for some one to take care of 
them. Forgive me for going this way, but it seemed the only way 
I could May be I shall be sick ; but if I do, there is no beauty 
to lose, you know, and if 1 die, there is nobody to break their heart 
about it. You will be sorry, I know. I thank you, oh so much, 
for all your kindness to me, and I do love you dearly. May God 
bless you for all your goodness. If I should die, what I leave is for 
. you to do what you please with. 

“ Your grateful and loving 

“ Lilly.” 

The good little woman’s tears fell faster as she 
looked about the empty room. 

I never was so beat in my life,” she confided 
to a dozen of her intimate friends many times over 
during the next week. You could have knocked 
me down with a feather.” 

Dr. Starkey’s amazement surpassed Miss Bul- 
lins’s, if possible. He first heard of the step Lilly 
had taken from Dr. Horton. He saw her himself 
a day or two later, on making his tri-weekly visit 
to the hospital, and commended her bravery and 
self-sacrificing spirit in phrases something less 
stilted than usual. 

He could not entirely banish an uneasy feeling 


75 


Tiger -Lily. 

when he looked at the fresh young face, but he 
became tolerably reconciled to the situation when 
he saw what her energy and tenderness, in co- 
operation with Widow GatchelFs skill and experi- 
ence, were accomplishing. 

As for the girl herself, the days and nights 
passed so rapidly, making such demands upon 
body and mind, as to leave no time for regret. 
The scenes she witnessed effaced the past entirely 
for the time. In the midst of all the pain, and 
loathsomeness, and delirium, and death, she moved 
about, strong, gentle and self-contained, so self- 
contained that the vigilant eyes of the old nurse 
followed her in mute surprise. 

“ I never see nothin’ like it,” she said to Dr. 
Horton one day. “ I’ve known her since she was 
little, an’ I never would ’a’ believed it, though I 
knew she’d changed. Why, she used to be so 
high-sjirung an’ techy, like, an’ now she’s like a 
lamb.” 

On the tenth day after her coming. Dr. Horton 
in making his round entered an upper chamber, 
where Lilly was standing by one of the three beds 
it contained. She had just drawn the sheet over 
the faces of two who had died that morning — 
mother and child. 

The dead woman was the deserted wife of a man 
who had left her a year , before, young, weak and 
ignorant, to certain want and degradation. 


76 


Tiger -Lily, 

“ I cannot feel sorry,” Lilly said. It is so 
much better for them than what was left for them 
here.” 

Dr. Horton hardly seemed to hear her words. 
He was leaning wearily against a chair behind 
him ; his eyes were dull, and his forehead con- 
tracted as if with physical suffering. 

You are ill ! ” she said, with a startled gesture. 

No, only getting a little tired out. I hope 
the worst is over now, and I think I shall hold 
out.” 

He went about from room to room, and from 
bed to bed, attentive and sympathetic as ever, and 
then left the house. A half hour later, one of the 
men came into the kitchen where Mrs. Gatchell 
was stirring something over the fire. 

Got a spare bed ? ” he asked, laconically. 

The widow looked up. 

‘‘ ’Cause we’ve got another patient.” 

** Who is it ? ” she asked, quickly. 

Come and see.” 

She followed the man to the rear of the house, 
where, upon a stone which had fallen from the 
wall. Dr. Horton was sitting, his head bent in 
slumber. She listened a moment to his heavy 
breathing, laid her hand upon his forehead, and 
turned silently away. 

A bed was made ready, and the young doctor, 
still wrapped in the heavy sleep of disease, was 


Tiger -Lily. 77 

laid upon it, and one of the men was sent for Dr. 
Starkey. 

In the delirium which marks the first stages of 
the disease, young Horton would allow no one 
but Lilly O’Connell to minister to him. Some- 
times he imagined himself a boy, and called her 
mother,” clinging to her hand, and moaning if 
she made the least effort to withdraw. At other 
times, another face haunted him, and another 
name, coupled with endearing words or tender re- 
proaches, fell from the half-unconscious lips. 

Who but a woman can comprehend the history 
of those days and nights of watching and waiting ? 
Each morning found her more marble-pale ; pur- 
ple rings formed themselves about the large eyes, 
but a deep, steady light, which was not born of 
pain and suffering, shone in their clear depths. 

At last, one night, the crisis, whose result no 
human judgment could foretell, was at hand. No 
delirium, no restlessness now — only a deep sleep, 
in which the tense muscles relaxed and the breath 
came as softly as a child’s. 

Widow Gatchell shared the young girl’s watch, 
but the strain of the last month had told upon her, 
and toward morning she fell asleep, and Lilly kept 
her vigil alone. Only the ticking of the old clock 
in the hall and the breathing of the sleepers broke 
the deep silence which filled the house. The lamp 
threw weird shadows across the ceiling and over 


78 Tiger- Lily, 

the disfigured face upon the pillow. Of all manly 
beauty, only the close-clustering chestnut hair re- 
mained, and the symmetrical hands which lay 
nerveless and pale, but unmarred, upon the 
spread. 

Statue-like, the young girl sat by the bed-side, 
her whole soul concentrated in the unwavering 
gaze which rested upon the sleeper’s face. A 
faint — ever so faint — murmur came at last from the 
hot, swollen lips, and one languid hand groped 
weakly, as if seeking something. She took it 
gently and held it between her own soft palms. 
It seemed to her fine touch that a light moisture 
was discernible upon it. She rose and bent over 
the pillow with eager eyes. A storm of raptured 
feeling shook her. She sank upon her knees by 
the bed, and pressed the hand she held close 
against her breast, whispering over it wild words 
which no ear might hear. 

All at once, the fingers which had lain so inert 
and passive in her grasp seemed to her to thrill 
with conscious life, to return faintly the pressure 
of her own. She started back. 

A ray of dawning light crept under the window- 
shade and lay across the sick man’s face. His 
eyes were open, and regarding her with a look of 
perfect intelligence. 

The girl rose with a smothered cry, and laid the 
drooping hand upon the bed. The dark, gentle 


79 


Tiger -Lily, 

eyes followed her beseechingly. It seemed as if 
he would have spoken, but the parched lips had 
lost their power. 

She went to the sleeping woman and touched 
her shoulder. 

“ Sarah, I think he is better,'’ she said, her voice 
trembling. 

Instantly, the old nurse was on the alert. She 
went to the bed, and laid her hand upon the sick 
man’s forehead and wrist, then turned toward 
Lilly, with a smile. 

“ Go and take some rest,” she said in a whisper. 

The crisis has passed. He will live.” 

Dr. Horton’s recovery was not rapid, but it was 
sure. 

From the hour of his return to consciousness, 
Lilly O’Connell had not entered his room. 

When a week had passed, he ventured to ques- 
tion his faithful attendant. Widow Gatchell, in re- 
gard to her. For twenty-four hours he had missed 
the step and voice he had believed to be hers, pass- 
ing and repassing the hall outside his door. The 
old woman turned her back abruptly and began 
stirring the already cheerful fire. 

“ She ain’t quite so well to-day,” she answered, 
in a constrained voice. 

The young man raised his head. 

Do you mean that she is sick ? ” he asked has- 
tily. 


8o 


Tiger -Lily, 

‘‘She was took down last night,” the widow an- 
swered, hesitating, and would have left the room ; 
but the young man beckoned her, and she went to 
his side. 

“ Let everything possible be done for her,” he 
said. “You understand — everything that can be 
done. Let Mason attend to me.” 

“ ril do my part,” the old nurse answered, in 
the peculiarly dry tone with which she was accus- 
tomed to veil her emotions. 

Dr. Starkey, who, since the young doctor’s ill- 
ness, had been, perforce, in daily attendance, was 
closely questioned. His answers, however, being 
of that reserved and non-committal nature charac- 
teristic of the profession, gave little satisfaction, and 
Horton fell into a way of noticing and interpreting, 
with the acute sense of the convalescent, each look 
of his attendant, each sound which came to him, 
keeping himself in a state of nervous tension which 
did much toward retarding his recovery. 

Three or four days had passed in this way, when 
one morning, just at daybreak, Dr. Horton was 
roused from his light sleep by sounds in the hall out- 
side his door — hushed voices, shuffling footsteps, 
and the sound of some object striking with a heavy 
thud against the balusters and wall. He raised 
himself, his heart beating fast, and listened in- 
tentty. The shuffling steps moved on, down the 
creaking stairs and across the bare floor below. A 


8i 


Tiger- Lily, 

door opened and shut, and deep silence filled the 
house again. He* sank back upon his pillow, faint 
and bewildered, but still listening, and after some 
moments, another sound reached his ears faintly 
from a distance — the click of metal against stones 
and frozen mold. 

He had already been able, with some assistance, 
to reach his chair once or twice a day ; now he 
rose unaided, and without consciousness of pain 
or weakness, found his way to the window, and 
pushed aside the paper shade with a shaking hand. 

It was a dull, gray morning, and a light snow 
was falling, but through the thin veil he could see 
the vague outlines of two men in the pasture op- 
posite, and could follow their stiff, slow motions. 
They were filling in a grave. 

He went to his bed and lay back upon it with 
closed eyes. When he opened them, Widow Gat- 
chell was standing by him with his breakfast on a 
tray. 

Her swarthy face was haggard, but her eyes 
were tearless, and her lips set tightly together. He 
put his hand out and touched hers. 

“ I know,” he said, softly. 

The woman put the tray on the table, and sank 
upon a chair. She cleared her throat several times 
before speaking. 

“ Yes,” she said, at last, in her dry, monoto- 
nous voice. She is gone. We did all we could 


4 “ 


82 


Tiger -Lily, 

for her, but 'twarn’t no use. She was all wore out 
when she was took. Just afore she died she started 
up and seized hold o' my hand, her eyes all soft 
an' shinin’, an’ her mouth a-smilin’. * Sarah,’ says 
she, ‘ I shall know the meaning of it now ! ’ The 
good Lord only knows what she meant — her mind 
was wanderin’, most likely — but them was her last 
words, * I shall know the meanin’ of it now, 
Sarah!’” 

The old woman sat a while in silence, with the 
strange repressed look which watching by so many 
death-beds had fixed upon her face ; then, arrang- 
ing the breakfast upon the stand, went out again. 

It snowed persistently all day. From the chair 
by the window. Doctor Horton watched it falling 
silently, making everything beautiful as it fell, — 
rude wall, and gnarled tree, and scraggy, leafless 
bush, — and covering those low, unsightly mounds 
with a rich and snowy pall. He watched it until 
night fell and shut it from his sight. 

Lily O’Connell’s was the last case. The disease 
seemed meantime to have spent its force, and in a 
few weeks the unbroken silence of midwinter rested 
over the drear and forlorn spot. 

Doctor Horton was again at home. He was 
thin, and his face showed some traces of the dis- 
ease from which he had just recovered, but they 
were slight, and such as would pass away in time. 
The pleasant chamber where he was sitting was 


Tiger -Lily, 83 

filled with evidences of care and attention, for 
every woman in Ridgemont, old or young, desired 
to show in some way her admiration and esteem 
for the young physician. Fruit and jellies and 
flowers and books filled every available place. 

He was seated before a cheerful fire. Upon the 
table by his side lay many papers and letters, the 
accumulation of several weeks. One letter, of a 
recent date, was open in his hand. A portion of 
it ran thus : 


“ * * * It has been very gay here this season, and mother 

and Aunt Kitty have insisted upon my going out a great deal. But 
I have had no heart in it, dearest, especially since I knew that you 
were ill. I assure you, I was almost ill myself when I heard of it. 
How thankful I am that you are convalescent. I long to see you 
so much, but Aunt Kitty does not think I ought to return before 
spring. Oh Roger, you think you are much changed ? * * * » 

Shading his eyes with his thin hand, he sat a 
long time in deep thought. At last, rousing him- 
self, he went to his desk and wrote as follows : 

My Dear Florence : I am changed ; so much that you 
would not know me ; so much that I hardly know myself; so much, 
indeed, that it is better we do not meet at present. R. H.” 

With a smile so bitter that it quite transformed his 
genial, handsome face, he read and re-read these 
lines. 

“ Yes,” he said aloud, “ it is the right way, the 


84 


Tiger -Lily. 

only way,” and he sealed and directed the letter, 
and went back to his reverie by the fire. 

Lilly O’Conneirs death made a deep impression 
in the village. That which her life, with all its pain 
and humiliation and loneliness, its heroic struggles, 
its quiet, hard-won victories, had failed to do, the 
simple story of her death accomplished. It was 
made the subject of at least two eloquent dis- 
courses, and for a time her name was on every 
tongue. But it was only for a time, for when, in 
the course of years, the graves in the pasture were 
opened, and the poor remains of mortality removed 
by surviving friends to sacred ground, her grave 
remained undisturbed. 

It was not forgotten, however. One day in June, 
when the happy, teeming earth was at her fairest. 
Dr. Horton drove out of the village, and turning 
into the grass-grown, untraversed road, went on 
to the scene of the past winter’s tragedy of suffer- 
ing and death. The old house was no longer in 
existence. By consent of the owner (whose where- 
abouts had been discovered), and by order of the 
selectmen of the town, it had been burned to the 
ground. Where it had stood, two crumbling chim- 
neys rose from the mass of blackened bricks and 
charred timbers which filled the cellar, the whole 
draped and matted with luxuriant woodbine and 
clinging shrubs. Birds brooded over their nests 
in every nook and cranny of the ruin, and red 


Tiger -Lily. 85 

roses flaunted in the sunshine and sprinkled the 
gray door-stone with splashes of color. The air 
was as sweet about it, the sky as blue above it, as 
if crime and plague were things which had no ex- 
istence. 

Dr. Horton left his horse to browse on the ten- 
der leaves of the young birches which grew along 
the wall, and went down into the pasture. The 
sod above the graves was green, and starred with 
small white flowers. There were fifteen graves in 
all, distinguished only by a number rudely cut upon 
rough stakes driven into the ground at their heads. 

He went slowly among them until he came to 
one a little apart from the others, in the shadow of 
the woods which bordered the field. A slender 
young aspen grew beside it, its quivering leaves 
shining in the sun. Soft winds blew out from the 
fragrant woods, and far off in their green depths 
echoed the exquisite, melancholy note of the 
wood-thrush. At the foot of the grave, where the 
grass, nourished by some hidden spring, grew long 
and lush, a single tiger-lily spread its glowing 
chalice. 

The young man stood there with uncovered head 
a long, long time. Then, laying his hand reverently 
upon the sod for one instant, he went away. 

Several years have passed since these events. 
Dr. Horton is still unmarried. This is a source of 
great regret in the community with which he has 


86 


Tiger -Lily, 

become so closely allied, and by which he is held 
in universal regard and honor. There are some 
prematurely whitened locks upon his temples, and 
two or three fine straight lines just above his warm, 
steadfast eyes, but he is neither a morose nor a 
melancholy man, and there are those who confi- 
dently hope that the many untenanted rooms in 
the old homestead may yet open to the sunshine 
of a wife’s smile, and echo to the music of childish 
voices. 

It was two years before he met Miss Fairfield, 
she having spent that time in Europe with her 
mother and “ Aunt Kitty.” It was a chance meet- 
ing, upon Tremont Street, in Boston. He was in 
the act of leaving a store as she entered, accom- 
panied by her mother. He recognized them with 
a friendly and courteous bow, and passed on. 

Miss Fairfield leaned against the counter with a.i 
face white as snow. 

‘'He is not — changed — so very much,” she 
whispered to her mother. 

Mrs. Fairfield, who had had her own ideas all 
along, kept a discreet silence. 

The Fairfields spend a part of their time in Ridge- 
mont, and the elegant little phaeton and the doc- 
tor’s buggy often pass each other on the street ; 
the occupants exchange greetings, and that is all. 

Miss Fairfield is Miss Fairfield still. Always 
elegant and artistic in her dress, she is not quite 


Tiger -Lily. 87 

the same, however. The porcelain tints have faded, 
and there is a sharpness about the delicate features, 
and a peevishness about the small pink lips. She 
is devoted to art. She paints industriously, and 
with fair result. Her tea-sets are much sought 
after, and she spends her winters in Boston.” 




Thirza. 














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Thirza. 


91 


THIRZA. 

She stood by the window, looking out over the 
dreary landscape, a woman of some twenty-five 
years, with an earnest, even melancholy face, in 
which the wistful brown eyes were undoubtedly 
the redeeming feature. Jones’ Hill, taken at its 
best, in full parade uniform of summer green, was 
not renowned for beauty or picturesqueness, and 
now, in fatigue dress of sodden brown stubble, with 
occasional patches of dingy white in ditches and 
hollows and along the edges of the dark pine woods, 
was even less calculated to inspire the beholder 
with enthusiasm. Still, that would hardly account 
for the shadow which rested upon Thirza Bradford’s 
face. She ought, in fact, to have worn a cheerful 
countenance. One week before she had been a 
poor girl, dependent upon the labor of her hand 
for her daily bread ; to-day she was sole posses- 
sor of a farm of considerable extent, the comfort- 
able old house at one of whose windows she was 
now standing, and all that house’s contents. 

One week before she had been called to the bed- 
side of her aunt, Abigail Leavitt. She had arrived 
none too soon, for the stern, sad old woman had 


92 


Thirza. 


received her summons, and before another morn- 
ing dawned had passed away. 

To her great surprise, Thirza found that her aunt 
had left her sole heiress of all she had possessed. 
Why she should have been surprised would be dif- 
ficult to explain. Aunt Abigail’s two boys had 
gone to the war and never returned^ her husband 
had been dead for many years, and Thirza was her 
only sister’s only child, and sole surviving relative. 
Nothing, therefore, was more natural than this 
event, but Thirza had simply never thought of it. 
She had listened, half in wonder, half in indiffer- 
ence, to the reading of the will, and had accepted 
mechanically the grudgingly tendered congratu- 
lations of the assembled farmers and their wives. 

She had been supported in arranging and carry- 
ing out the gloomy details of the funeral by Jane 
Withers, a spinster of a type peculiar to New Eng- 
land ; one of those persons who, scorning to demeari 
themselves by “hiring out,” go about, nevertheless, 
from family to family, rendering reluctant service, 
just to accommodate ” (accepting a weekly stipend 
in the same spirit of accommodation, it is to be 
supposed). With this person’s assistance, Thirza 
had prepared the repast to which, according to cus- 
tom, the mourners from a distance were invited on 
their return from the burying-ground. Aunt Abi- 
gail had been stricken down at the close of a Satur- 
day’s baking, leaving a goodly array upon the pan- 


Thirza, 


93 


try shelves, a fact upon which Jane congratulated 
herself without any attempt at concealment, observ- 
ing, in fact, that the melancholy event “ couldn’t 
have happened handier.” In vain had Thirza pro- 
tested — Jane was inflexible — and she had looked on 
with silent horror, while the funeral guests devoured 
with great relish the pies and ginger-bread which 
the dead woman’s hand had prepared. 

Mis’ Leavitt were a master hand at pie-crust,” 
remarked one toothless dame, mumbling at the 
flaky paste, “ a master hand at pie-crust, but she 
never were much at bread ! ” whereupon the whole 
feminine conclave launched out into a prolonged 
and noisy discussion of the relative merits of salt- 
risin’s, milk-emptin’s, and potato yeast. 

That was three or four days ago, and Thirza had 
remained in the old house with Jane, who had 
kindly proffered her services and the solace of her 
companionship. There had been little to do in the 
house, and that little was soon done, and now the 
question of what she was to do with her new ac- 
quisition was looming up before her, and assuming 
truly colossal proportions. She was thinking of it 
now as she stood there with the wistful look upon 
her face, almost wishing that Aunt Abigail had left 
the farm to old Jabez Higgins, a fourth or fifth 
cousin by marriage, who had dutifully appeared at 
the funeral, with a look as if he had that within 
which passed showing, and doubtless he had, for 


94 


Tkirza. 


he turned green and blue when the will was read, 
and drove off soon after at a tearing pace. 

Jane, having condescended to perform the oper- 
ation of washing up the two plates, cups, etc., 
v/hich their evening meal had brought into requisi- 
tion, entered presently, knitting in hand, and seated 
herself with much emphasis in a low wooden chair 
near the window. She was an erect and angular 
person, with an aggressive air of independence 
about her, a kind of just-as-good-as-you-are ” 
expression, which seemed to challenge the observer 
to dispute it at his peril. She took up the first 
stitch on her needle, fixed her sharp eyes upon 
Thirza, and, as if in answer to her thoughts, opened 
on her as follows : 

Ye haint made up yer mind what ye’re a-goin’ 
ter dew, hev ye ? ” 

Thirza slowly shook her head, without looking 
around. 

** It’s kind o’ queer now how things does work 
a-round. There you was a-workin’ an’ a-slavin’ in 
that old mill, day in an’ day out, only a week ago, 
an’ now you can jest settle right down on yer own 
place an’ take things easy.” 

Thirza vaguely wondered why Aunt Abigail had 
never “ taken things easy.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder a mite,” went on Jane, with 
increasing animation, I shouldn’t wonder a single 
mite if you should git a husband, after all ! ” 


Thirza, 


95 


Thirza’s pale face flushed, and she made an in- 
voluntary gesture of impatience with one shoulder. 

Oh, ye needn’t twist around so,” said the un- 
daunted spinster, dryly. Ye ain’t no chicken, 
laws knows, but ye needn’t give up all hopes. Ye’re 
twenty-five if ye’re a day, but that ain’t nothin’ when 
a woman’s got a farm worth three thousand dollars.” 

Three thousand dollars ! For the first time her 
inheritance assumed its monetary value before 
Thirza’s eyes. Hitherto she had regarded it merely 
as an indefinite extent of pastures, woods, and 
swamps — but three thousand dollars ! It sounded 
like a deal of money to her, who had never owned 
a hundred dollars at one time in her life, and her 
imagination immediately wandered off into fascin- 
ating vistas, which Jane’s prosaic words had thrown 
open before her. She heard, as in a dream, the 
nasal, incisive voice as it went on with the catalogue 
of her possessions. 

*^Yes, it’s worth three thousand dollars, if it’s 
worth a cent ! I heerd Squire Brooks a-tellin’ Or- 
thaniel Stebbins so at the funeral. An’ then, here’s 
the house. There ain’t no comfortabler one on 
Joneses’ Hill, nor one that has more good furnitoor 
an’ fixin’s in it. Then there’s Aunt Abigail’s clo’es 
an’ things. Why, ter my sar tain knowledge there’s 
no less’n five real good dresses a-hangin’ in the 
fore-chamber closet, ter say nothin’ of the bureau 
full of under-clo’es an’ beddin’.” Jane did not 


96 


Thirza. 


think it necessary to explain by what means this 

sartain knowledge ” had been achieved, but con- 
tinued : “There’s a silk warp alpacky now, a- 
hangin’ up there, why— it’s e’en-a-most as good as 
new! The creases ain’t out on’t.” (Unsophisticated 
Jane I not to know that the creases never do go 
out of alpaca.) I don’t see what in the name 
o’ sense ye’re a-goin’ ter dew with all them dresses. 
It’ll take ye a life-time ter wear ’em out. If /hed 
that silk warp alpacky now,” — she continued mus- 
ingly, yet raising her voice so suddenly that Thirza 
started ; “if / hed that are dress, I should take out 
two of the back breadths for an over-skirt — yes — • 
an’ gore the others 1 ” This climax was delivered 
in triumphant tone. Then lowering her voice she 
continued, reflectively: “Aunt Abigail was jest 
about my build.” 

Thirza caught the import of the last words. 

“ Jane,” said she, languidly, with an undertone 
of impatience in her voice (it was hard to be re- 
called from her pleasant wanderings by a silk warp 
alpaca I), “ Jane, you can have it.” 

“ Wh-what d’ye say?” inquired Jane, incredu- 
lously. 

“ I said you could have that dress ; I don’t want 
it,” repeated Thirza. 

Jane sat a moment in silence before she trusted 
herself to speak. Her heart was beating with de- 
light, but she would not allow the smallest evi- 


Thirzas 


97 

dence of joy or gratitude to escape in word or 
look. 

Wall,” she remarked, coolly, after a fitting 
pause, ef you haint got no use for it, I might take 
it, I s’pose. Not that I’m put tew it for clo’es, but 

I allers did think a sight of Aunt Abigail ” 

Her remarks were interrupted by an exclama- 
tion from Thirza. The front gate opened with a 
squeak and closed with a rattle and bang, and the 
tall form of Orthaniel Stebbins was seen coming 
up the path. Orthaniel was a mature youth of 
thirty. For length and leanness of body, promi- 
nence of elbow and knee joints, size and knobbi- 
ness of extremities, and vacuity of expression, 
Orthaniel would have been hard to match. He 
was attired in a well-preserved black cloth suit, 
with all the usual accessories of a rustic toilet. 
His garments seemed to have been designed by 
his tailor for the utmost possible display of the 
joints above mentioned, and would have suggested 
the human form with equal clearness, if buttoned 
around one of the sprawling stumps which were so 
prominent a feature in the surrounding landscape. 
On this particular occasion there was an air of im- 
portance, almost of solemnity, about his person, 
which, added to a complacent simper, born of a 
sense of the delicate nature of his present errand, 
produced in his usually blank countenance some- 
thing almost amounting to expression. 


Thirza. 


98 

At first sight of this not unfamiliar apparition, 
Thirza had incontinently fled, but Jane received 
the visitor with becoming impressiveness. 

“ Good-evenin’, Mr. Stebbins. Walk right into 
the fore-room,” she remarked, throwing open the 
door of that apartment of state. 

No need o’ puttin’ yourself out, marm ; the 
settin’-room’s good enough for me,” graciously re- 
sponded the gentleman. 

Walk right in,” repeated Jane, throwing open 
one shutter, and letting in a dim light upon the 
scene — a veritable chamber of horrors, with its 
hideous carpet, hair-cloth chairs and sofa, the name- 
less abominations on its walls, and its general air 
of protest against the spirit of beauty and all that 
goes to make up human comfort. 

Mr. Stebbins paused on the threshold. There 
was something unusually repellent about the room, 
a lingering funereal atmosphere, which reached 
even his dull senses. He would have infinitely pre- 
ferred the sitting-room; but a latent sense of some- 
thing in his errand which required the utmost dig- 
nity in his surroundings prevailed, and he therefore 
entered and seated himself on one of the prickly 
chairs, which creaked expostulatingly beneath him. 

“ I — ahem ! Is Miss Bradford in ? ” 

This question was, of course, a mere form, — a 
ruse de guei're^ as it were, — and Mr. Stebbins 
chuckled inwardly over his remarkable diplomacy. 


Thirza, 


99 


He had seen Thirza at the window, and witnessed 
her sudden flight ; but, so far from feeling affronted 
by the act, it had rather pleased him. It indicated 
maiden shyness, and he accepted it as a flattering 
tribute to his powers of fascination. She’s gone 
to fix up her hair, or somethin’,” he reflected. 

When Jane came to summon her, she found 
Thirza sitting by the window of the fore-chamber, 
gazing thoughtfully out into the twilight again. 

‘‘ Thirzy ! ” whispered the spinster, as mysteri- 
ously as if Mr. Stebbins was within possible ear- 
shot, Orthaniel Stebbins wants ter see yer. Go 
right down ! ” 

‘‘ Jane, I — sha’n’t ! ” answered Thirza, shortly. 

Jane started, and opened her small gray eyes 
their very widest. 

Wh-at ? ” she stammered. 

“ I mean I don’t want to go down,” said Thirza, 
more politely. “ I don’t wish to see him.” 

“Wall, if that don’t beat the master!” ex- 
claimed Jane, coming nearer. “ Why, he’s got on 
his Sunday clo’es I ’S likely ’s not he’s a-goin’ ter 
propose ter ye I ” 

“ You had better send him away, then,” said 
Thirza. 

Ye don’t mean to say ye wouldn’t hev him 1 ” 
gasped Jane, with a look of incredulous amaze- 
ment which, catching Thirza’s eye, caused her to 
burst into a laugh. 


lOO 


Thirza, 


** I suppose I must go down,” she said at last, 
rising. If I don’t, I shall have all Jones’ Hill 
down upon me. Oh dear ! ” 

Mr. Stebbins would have been surprised to see 
that she passed the mirror without even one 
glance. 

“ Hadn’t ye better take off yer apron, an’ put 
on a pink bow, or somethin’ ? ” suggested Jane ; 
‘‘ye look real plain.” 

Thirza did not deign to reply, but walked indif- 
ferently away. 

“ Wall ! ” ejaculated the bewildered spinster, “ I 
hope I may never ! ” And then, being a person 
who believed in improving one’s opportunities, she 
proceeded at once to a careful re-examination of 
the “ silk-warp alpacky,” which hung in straight, 
solemn folds from a nail in the closet ; it had hung 
precisely the same upon Aunt Abigail’s lathy 
form. 

Thirza went into the gloomy fore-room. It 
struck a chill to her heart, and she went straight 
past Mr. Stebbins, with merely a nod and a “ good- 
evening,” and threw open another shutter, before 
seating herself so far from him, and in such a 
position, that he could only see her face by an 
extraordinary muscular feat. Mr. Stebbins felt 
that his reception was not an encouraging one. 
He hemmed and hawed, and at last managed to 
utter : 


5 


Thirza. 


lOI 


‘‘ Pleasant evenin’, Miss Bradford.” 

Very,” responded Thirza. It was particularly 
cold and disagreeable outside, even for a New 
England April. 

“ I guess we kin begin plantin’ by next week,” 
continued the gentleman. 

“Do you really think so?” responded Thirza, 
in an absent sort of way. 

It was not much ; but it was a question, and in 
so far helped on the conversation. Mr. Stebbins 
was re-assured. 

“ Yes,” he resumed, in an animated manner, “ I 
actooally dew ! Ye see. Miss Bradford, ye haint 
said nothin’ tew me about the farm, so I thought 
I’d come ’roun’ an’ find out what yer plans is.” 

“ I haven’t made any,” said Thirza, as he 
paused. 

“Oh — ye haint? Well, ye know I’ve been 
a-workin’ on’t on shares fur yer aunt Abigail, 
goin’ on five year, an’ I’m ready ter dew the same 

fur you; that is ” and here Mr. Stebbins 

hitched a little nearer, while a smile, which dis- 
played not only all his teeth, but no little gum as 
well, spread itself over his bucolic features, “ that 
is, if we can’t make no other arrangements more 
pleasin’.” 

There was no mistaking his intentions now ; 
they spoke from every feature of his shrewdly 
smiling countenance, from his agitated knees and 


102 


Thirza. 


elbows, and from the uneasy hands and feet which 
seemed struggling to detach themselves from their 
lank continuations and abscond then and there. 

Thirza looked her wooer calmly in the face. 
Her imperturbability embarrassed but did not dis- 
hearten him. 

“ Thar ain’t no use in foolin’ round the stump ! ” 
he continued. I might jest as well come out 
with it, plain an’ squar ! I’m ready an’ willin’ to 
take the hull farm off yer hands if you’re agreeable. 
You jest marry me, Thirzy, an’ that settles the 
hull question slick as a whistle ! ” and Mr. Steb- 
bins settled back in his chair with a look as if he 
.had just elucidated a long-mooted problem in 
social science. 

Thirza rose : there was a little red spot on each 
cheek, and an unwonted sparkle in her soft eyes ; 
but her manner was otherwise unruffled as she 
answered : 

You are really very kind, Mr. Stebbins, but I 
think I shall find some other way out of the dilem- 
ma. I couldn’t think of troubling ^ou” 

** Oh ” he stammered, ’tain’t — no trouble 

—at all ! ” 

But Thirza was gone. 

For a moment Mr. Stebbins doubted his iden- 
tity. He stared blankly at the open door awhile, 
and then his eyes wandered vacantly over the car- 
pet and wall, finally coming to rest upon the toes 


Thirza, 


103 


of his substantial boots. He sat for some time 
thus, repeating Thirza’s words as nearly as he 
could recall them, endeavoring to extract the pith 
of meaning from the surrounding fibres of polite 
language. Had she actually refused him ? Mr. 
Stebbins, by a long and circuitous mental process, 
arrived at length at the conclusion that she hady 
and accordingly rose, walked out of the front door 
and down the narrow path, in a state of mind best 
known to rejected suitors. As he closed the gate 
he cast one sheepish look toward the house. 

“ I’ll be darned ! ” he muttered, “ I’ll be darned 
if I hain’t got the mitten ! ” and, discomfited and 
sore, the Adonis of Jones’ Hill disappeared in the 
evening shadows. 

Jane was watching his departure from behind 
the curtain of the sitting-room window. In all 
probability her gentle bosom had never been the 
scene of- such a struggle as was now going on be- 
neath the chaste folds of her striped calico gowm. 
She could not doubt the object of Mr. Stebbins’s 
visit, nor its obvious result. Astonishment, in- 
credulity, curiosity, in turn possessed her. 

“ Waal ! ” she soliloquized, as the curtain fell 
from her trembling fingers, “ the way some folks 
fly in the face of Providence doos beat the master ! ” 

Thirza, too, had observed her suitor as he strode 
away, with an expression of scorn upon her face 
which finally gave way to one of amusement, end- 


104 


Thirza, 


ing in a laugh — a curious hysterical laugh. A mo- 
ment later she had thrown herself upon the bed, 
and Jane, who in a state of curiosity bordering on 
asphyxia, came up to the door soon after, heard a 
sound of sobbing, and considerately went away. 

Thirza had her cry out; every woman knows 
what that means, and knows, too, the mingled 
sense of relief and exhaustion which follows. It 
was fully an hour later when she arose and groped 
her way down into the sitting-room where Jane sat 
knitting zealously by the light of a small lamp. 
That person's internal struggles commenced afresh, 
and a feeling of indignation quite comprehensible 
burnt in her much-vexed bosom as Thirza, after 
lighting another lamp, bade her ‘‘good-night," 
and went out of the room, leaving her cravings for 
fuller information unassuaged. 

Once more in her room, Thirza seated herself 
before the glass and began to loosen the heavy 
dark braids of her hair. Upon the bureau lay an 
open letter, and leaving the soft tresses half un- 
done, she took it up and re-read. it. When she 
had finished she let it fall upon her lap and fell to 
thinking. The letter was from her cousin Sue, 
and bore a foreign post-mark, and from thinking 
over its contents Thirza fell into reflections upon 
the diversity of human fate, particularly her own 
and Sue's. They had commenced life under very 
similar circumstances. Both had been born about 


Thirza, 


105 

the same time, and in the town of Milburn. Both 
were “only” children, the fathers of both were 
mechanics of the better class, and the girls were 
closely associated up to their fourteenth year, as 
play-fellows and schoolmates. Sue was an ordi- 
nary sort of a girl, with a rather pretty blonde 
face ; Thirza, a bright, original creature, with a 
mobile, dark face, which almost every one turned 
to take a second look at ; a girl who, with a book, 
almost any book, became oblivious of all else. 
Her father was a man of more than ordinary intel- 
ligence, of a dreamy, speculative turn of mind, and 
subject to periods of intense depression. When 
she was about fourteen years old, Thirza went one 
evening to the barn to call her father to supper. 
Receiving no answer to her call, she entered, and 
there, in a dim corner, she saw somethmg sus- 
pended from a beam, — something she could never 
efface from her memory. A shaft of sunlight full 
of dancing motes fell athwart the distorted face, 
whose smile she must now forever miss, and across 
the rigid hands which would never again stroke 
her hair in the old fond, proud way. In that mo- 
ment the child became a woman. She went to 
the nearest neighbor, and without scream or sob 
told what she had seen — then she went to her 
mother. Soon after, the young girl whose school- 
life was thus early ended took her place at a loom 
in one of the great cotton-mills, and there she re- 
s’^ 


io6 


Thirza. 


mained for more than ten years, the sole support 
and comfort of her weak, complaining mother, 
who, from the dreadful day that made her a widow, 
sank into hopeless invalidism. One year previ- 
ously to the commencement of this story she had 
been laid to rest. In the meantime Sue had grown 
up, and married a smart fellow,” who after a 
few years of successful business life in New York, 
had been sent by some great firm to take charge 
of a branch establishment in Paris. 

Thirza was thinking of these things now, as she 
sat with Sue’s gossipy letter on her lap — thinking 
of them wearily, and even with some bitterness. 
It seemed to her hard and strange that Sue should 
have everything, and she only her lonely, toilsome 
life, and her dreams. These indeed remained ; no 
one could forbid them to her — no amount of toil 
and constant contact with sordid natures could 
despoil her of her one priceless treasure, the power 
to live, ill imagination, brief but exquisite phases 
of existence which no one around her ever sus- 
pected. Books furnished the innocent hasheesh, 
which transported her out of the stale atmosphere 
of her boarding-house into realms of ever new de- 
light. 

But to-night she could not dream. The inter- 
view with Mr. Stebbins had been a rude shock, a 
bitter humiliation to her. She had held herself so 
proudly aloof from the men of her acquaintance 


Thirza, 


107 


that none had ever before ventured to cross the 
fine line of reserve she had drawn about her ; and 
now, this uncouth, mercenary clown had dared 
pull down the barrier, and trample under foot the 
delicate flowers of sentiment she had cherished 
with such secrecy and care. Her first wooer ! Not 
thus, in the idle dreams which come to every 
maiden’s heart, had Thirza pictured him. That 
other rose before her now, and strangely enough, 
it took on the semblance, as it often had of late, 
of one she had almost daily seen — a handsome 
face, a true and good one, too ; and yet the hot 
blood surged into her cheeks, and she tried to ban- 
ish the image from her mind. It would not go at 
her bidding, however, and, as if to hide from her 
own eyes in the darkness, Thirza arose and put 
out the light. 

There was no time for dreaming after this, for 
the question of her inheritance must be settled. 
So, after a day or two of reflection, Thirza drove 
into town and held a long consultation with Squire 
Brooks, the result of which was that the farm was 
announced for sale. It was not long before a pur- 
chaser appeared, and in due course of time Thirza 
found herself, for the first time in her life, in pos- 
session of a bank-book ! 

She returned to her place in the mill, notwith- 
standing, and was secretly edified in observing the 
effect which her re-appearance produced upon the 


io8 


Thirza. 


operatives. The women watched her askance, 
curiously and enviously, indulging in furtive re- 
marks upon her unchanged appearance. As an 
heiress something had evidently been expected of 
her in the way of increased elegance in dress, and 
its non-appearance excited comment. On the part 
of the men there was a slight increase of respect in 
their mode of salutation, and in one or two in- 
stances, an endeavor to cultivate a nearer acquaint- 
ance, an endeavor, it is needless to say, without 
success. 

But if there was no outer change in Thirza, there 
was an inner change going on, which became at 
length a feverish restlessness, which disturbed her 
night and day. She found herself continually tak- 
ing down from her shelves certain fascinating 
books, treating of foreign scenes and people ; read- 
ing and re-reading them, and laying them aside 
with strange reluctance. Then she fell into a habit 
of taking her little bank-book, and figuring assidu- 
ously upon the covers. Three thousand dollars ! 
Enough, she bitterly reflected, to keep her from 
the almshouse when her hands became too feeble 
to tend the loom, but a paltry sum, after all ! 
Many persons, even in Millburn, spent far more 
than that yearly. 

All at once a thought flashed upon her, a 
thought which took away her breath and set her 
brain to whirling. And yet it was not an abso- 


Thirza, 


109 


lutely new thought. It had haunted her under 
various disguises from the moment when Jane 
Withers, by a few words, had transmuted the bar- 
ren pastures and piney woods of her farm into 
actual dollars ; and now, after hovering about all 
this time, it had found a moment, — when some fas- 
cinating book had thrown her off her guard, — to 
spring upon and oVerpower her. For a moment 
she was stunned and overwhelmed — then she calmly 
closed the little bank-book, and said : ‘‘I will do 
it!” 

In one week the whole town knew that Thirza 
Bradford was going to travel, and all former dis- 
cussions of her affairs sank into nothing in com- 
parison with the importance they now assumed. 
Among her immediate acquaintances there was 
considerable excitement, and their opinions were 
freely, if not elegantly, expressed. The men, al- 
most without exception, pronounced her a fool,” 
as did the elder women, whose illusions, if they 
had ever entertained any, had long since been dis- 
pelled. But among the younger women there was 
a more or less repressed feeling of sympathy, 
amounting to envy. Poor girls 1 they, too, no 
doubt, indulged in secret longings which their pro- 
saic work-a-day world failed to satisfy ; and doubt- 
less those who had themselves ‘‘ aunt Abigails,” or 
any other “ expectations ” of a like nature, were 
led into wild and wicked speculations upon the 


no 


Thirza, 


tenure of human life, for which, it is to be hoped, 
Thirza will not be held accountable. 

It is the fashion of the day to ascribe our more 
objectionable peculiarities and predilections to 

hereditary taint,” and there is something so com- 
forting and satisfactory in this theory, that it has 
attracted many adherents not otherwise of a scien- 
tific turn of mind. Millburn was not scientific ; but 
even Millburn fell into the same way of theorizing. 

Bill Bradford,” said public opinion, “was an 
oneasy sort of a chap, — a half crazy, extravagant 
critter, — and Thirzy is a chip o’ the old block.” 

When the news reached Jones’ Hill, — which it 
shortly did by the never-failing means of Jane 
Withers, who was accommodatingly helping Or- 
thaniel’s mother through a course of “ soap-bilin’,’’ 
— the comments were severe. Orthaniel received 
the tidings as he was about starting for the cow- 
yard, with a milk-pail in each hand. He listened, 
with fallen jaw, unto the bitter end. Then, giving 
his blue overalls an expressive hitch, he remarked 
ungallantly : 

“That gal hain’t got no more sense ’n a yaller 
dog ! ” — and he, at least, may be pardoned for so 
thinking. 

As for Thirza, her decision once made, she 
troubled herself little about the “speech of 
people.” From the moment when she had closed 
her little bank-book with the words “ I will do 


Thirza, 


III 


it,” she became, not another woman, but her real 
self. She went serenely about her simple prepara- 
tions for her departure in a state of quiet exultation 
which lent a new charm to her dark face and a new 
grace to her step. 

Squire Brooks arranged her money affairs for 
her, — not without remonstrance, however. It 
seemed to the close-fisted, elderly man a wild and 
wanton thing to do ; but there was something in 
the half-repressed enthusiasm of the girl which 
caused the wise, prudential words to die upon his 
lips. When she left his office, on the evening be- 
fore her departure, he watched the light-stepping 
figure out of sight, and then walked up to the 
dingy office mirror and surveyed his wrinkled vis- 
age on all sides. Carefully brushing up the sparse 
gray locks which had been ordered to the front, as 
it were, to fill the gaps created by Time’s on- 
slaughts, he shook his head deprecatingly, and 
with a sigh walked away from the glass, humming 
softly Mary of Argyle.” 

As Thirza, absorbed in thought, turned into the 
long, shaded street which led down to her board- 
ing-house, she was startled out of her reverie by 
the sound of her own name, pronounced in a 
friendly tone. Looking up, she saw a gentleman 
approaching. Her heart gave a quick leap as she 
recognized Warren Madison, son of the richest 
manufacturer of Millburn. He was no recent ac- 


II2 


Thirza, 


quaintance. In her school days, when social dis- 
tinctions weighed but little, there had been a 
childish intimacy and fondness between them. 
Time and separation, and the wide difference in 
their position, — which she, at least, felt most 
keenly, — had estranged them. Since the young 
man’s return, after years of study and travel, to 
become his father’s partner, she had met him very 
often, both in the mill and outside of it, and he 
had constantly shown a disposition to renew their 
former friendship. But poor, proud Thirza had 
rejected all his advances. Even now, although 
her cheeks tingled and her hands trembled nerv- 
ously, she would have passed him with a simple 
nod ; but somehow, before she realized it, young 
Madison had secured her hand and a smile, too ; 
and, to her surprise, she found herself walking by 
his side, talking with something of the familiarity 
of the old school days. 

I have been absent for some time, and only 
heard to-day that you are going away,” he said. 

“ Yes,” responded Thirza. “ I am going away 
— to Europe.” 

“ To seek your fortune ? ” said he, with a smile. 

“ No — to spend it,” said Thirza, in the same 
manner. “ I suppose that you, like Parson Smy- 
thers and the rest of Millburn, consider it an ‘ ex- 
try-or6!mdJcy proceeding,’ ” — this with a fair imita- 
tion of the reverend gentleman’s peculiar drawl. 


Thirza, 


113 


Madison smiled. 

Don’t count me among your judges, I beg of 
you, Thirza,” he responded, more gravely. Per- 
haps I understand you better than you think.” 

She glanced quickly up into his face, — a hand- 
some face, frank and noble in its expression. 

“Understand me?” she repeated; “I don’t 
think any one understands me. Not that they are 
to blame — I am hardly worth the trouble, I sup- 
pose. I know,” she continued, moved by an im- 
pulse to unburden her heart to some one, “ I know 
that people are discussing and condemning me, 
and it does not trouble me at all to know it ; but I 
don’t mind saying this much to you” She caught 
the last two words back between her lips, but not 
before they had reached the young man’s ears. 
He glanced quickly into her downcast face, with a 
look full of eager questioning ; but this Thirza did 
not see, for she had turned her eyes away in con- 
fusion. “You know what my life has been,” she 
went on impetuously. “ I have never had any 
youth. Ever since I was a child, I have toiled to 
keep body and soul together. I have succeeded 
in feeding the one ; but the other has starved. I 
have weighed everything in the balance. I am all 
alone in the world — all I had to live for is — up 
there.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the 
old burying-ground. “ I may be foolish, — even 
selfish and wicked, — but I can’t help it ! I am going 


Thirza, 


114 

to leave everything behind me, all the work and all 
the worry, and give myself a holiday. For one 
whole year I am going to live — really live ! After 
that, I can bear the old life better — perhaps ! ” 

The girl was almost beautiful as she spoke, with 
the soft fire in her eyes and her cheeks aglow. 
Her voice was sweet and full, and vibrated like a 
harp-string. The young man beside her did not 
look at her. He walked steadily forward, gazing 
straight down into the dusty road, and striking 
out almost savagely with his cane at the innocent 
heads of the white clover which crowded up to the 
road-side. 

‘‘ I think I know how you feel,” he said, after a 
while. “Why, do you know, I have often had 
such thoughts myself. Better one year of real life, 
as you say, than a century of dull routine ! ” 

By this time they had reached the door of Thirza’s 
boarding-house. There were faces at almost every 
window of the much-windowed establishment, to 
say nothing of those of the neighboring houses; 
but neither Thirza nor her companion was aware 
of this. 

They stood on the steps a moment in silence ; 
then he held out his hand. As she placed her 
own within it, she felt it tremble. Their eyes met, 
too, with a swift recognition, and a sharp, sweet 
pain went through her heart. She forced herself 
to turn her eyes away, and to say quietly : 


Thirza. 


115 

Good-evening and good-bye, Mr. Madison.” . 

The young man dropped her hand and drew a 
quick breath. 

Good-bye, Thirza,” he said; ** may you find it 
all that you anticipate. Good-bye.” 

And the score or more pairs of inquisitive eyes at 
the surrounding windows saw young Mr. Madison 
walk calmly away, and Miss Bradford, with equal 
calmness, enter her boarding-house. 

The next morning Thirza went away, and, the 
nine days’ wonder being over, she was dropped 
almost as completely out of the thoughts and con- 
versation of the people of Millburn as if she had 
never existed. 

We will not accompany her on her travels. 
There was a time when we might have done so ; 
but alas, for the story-writer of to-day ! Picture- 
galleries, palaces, and chalets, noble, peasant, and 
brigand, gondolas, volcanoes, and glaciers, — all 
are as common and familiar to the reader of the 
period as bonbons. It is enough to say that Thirza 
wandered now in reality, as she had so often in 
fancy, through the storied scenes w^hich had so 
charmed her imagination ; often doubting if it were 
indeed herself, or if what she saw were not the 
baseless fabric of a vision, which the clanging of 
the factory bell might demolish at any moment. 

Sue’s astonishment when Thirza, after two 
months in England and Scotland, walked one day 


ii6 


Thirza, 


into her apartment in Paris, quite unannounced, 
can be imagined. She wondered and conjectured, 
but, as her unexpected guest was neither awkward 
nor badly dressed, accepted the situation grace- 
fully, and ended by really enjoying it. After de- 
lightful Paris days, came Italy, Germany, and 
Switzerland, and then more of Paris, and at last 
came a time when inexorable figures showed Thirza 
plainly that she must think of returning to America. 

“Thirza,” protested Sue, “you really mustnt 

go-” 

For answer Thirza held up to view a travel- 
stained porte-monnaie. * 

“ Perhaps we can arrange it somehow,” persisted 
her cousin, vaguely. “ You might take a situation 
as governess, you know ; ” these words were 
uttered doubtfully, and with a deprecating glance 
at the face opposite. 

“Thank you!” responded Thirza. “I don’t 
feel a call in that direction. I think, on the whole, 
I’d prefer weaving cotton.” 

“ You’ll find it unendurable ! ” groaned Sue. 

“ Well, que votdez-vous ? ” responded her cousin, 
lightly ; a quick ear would have noted the slight 
tremor in her voice. “ I have had a glorious holi- 
day.” 

“ But the going back will be simply dreadful,” 
persisted Sue. “I wish I were rich — then you 
shouldn’t go 1 ” 


Thirza, 


117 


hardly think that would make any differ- 
ence, my dear cousin. I don’t think I am emin- 
ently fitted to become a parasite,” laughed Thirza. 

“ Do you know what you are eminently fitted 
for ? ” cried Sue, energetically. 

Sue ! ” cried Thirza, warningly. 

I don’t care,” Sue continued, daringly ; you 
are so set on going back to America that I half 
suspect ” 

Don’t, Sue, please ! ” interrupted Thirza, with 
such evident signs of genuine displeasure, that Sue, 
who stood somewhat in awe of her cousin, ceased 
to banter, mentally vowing that she was “the 
queerest girl she had ever met with.” 

Thirza arose and went out into the flower- 
adorned balcony. She sought distraction, but 
somehow the surging, chattering crowd in the 
street below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off 
strains of music, did not bring her what she 
sought. 

“ If only Sue wouldn’t ! ” she reflected, and 
then, between her and the sea of heads, and the 
lights and the flowers rose a face — the face that 
had troubled her meditations on Jones’ Hill, that 
had followed her in all her wanderings, the noble 
face, with its blue eyes bent upon her so earnestly, 
so eloquently. Had she read aright, even if too 
late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers 
at parting ? The same sweet, sharp pain that was 


ii8 


Thirza, 


not all pain, shot through her heart, and a con- 
sciousness of something blindly missed, something 
perversely thrown away, came over her. Sighing, 
she arose, and in response to Sue’s call, went in 
and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her pres- 
ent mood, she felt neither pleasure nor interest. 
** If people here knew what a pitiful fraud I am — 
what a despicable part I am acting ! ” she said to 
herself, as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered 
the brilliant salon. 

It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was 
sailing homeward as fast as wind and wave and 
steam could carry her. The year that had passed 
had brought little outward change in the girl. She 
looked fairer and fresher, perhaps, and certain lit- 
tle rusticities of dress and speech and manner had 
disappeared — worn off, as had the marks of toil 
from the palms of her slender hands. But to all 
intents and purposes, the tall figure in its close- 
fitting brown suit, which during the homeward 
voyage sat for the most part in the vessel’s -stern, 
gazing back over the foaming path, was the same 
which had watched a year before with equal steadi- 
ness from the steamer’s bow. The very same, and 
yet — the girl often wondered if she were indeed 
the same, and lost herself in speculations as to how 
the old life at Millburn would seem to her now. 
She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of 
her existence there, and tried to look her future 


Thirza, 


119 

undauntedly in the face. But all her philosophy 
failed her when in imagination she found herself 
upon the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, 
she faltered weakly, and turned back. 

When at last, one evening in June, she stepped 
out of the train at the little station of Millburn, a 
crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing upon her, 
as if they had been lying in wait there 1?o welcome 
her. She had informed no one of her coming, and 
it was not strange that no friendly face greeted 
her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone through 
the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint 
within her. How poor and meagre everything 
seemed ! The unpaved streets, the plank side- 
walks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the 
river, the great mills, looming grim and shapeless 
through the dusk ! The long, glorious holiday was 
over — there lay her future. 

Weary and sick at heart she entered her board- 
ing-house. The old familiar aroma saluted her, 
the hard-featured landlady welcomed her with a 
feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy 
demonstrations. 

Her room was at her disposal, and under the 
plea of fatigue she kept out of sight the whole of 
the succeeding day, which happened to be Sun- 
day. She lay the greater part of the day upon 
the old lounge, looking round upon the well-known 
furnishings with a weary gaze. How small and 


120 


Thirza, 


shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, 
how mean and prosaic everything, and the very 
canaries in their cage had forgotten her, and 
screamed shrilly at her approach ! 

That was a long day — the longest of her life, 
she thought. But the girl was made of good stuff ; 
she made a brave fight, and this time came off 
conqueror! When Monday morning came, she 
arose and dressed herself in the old gray working 
suit, smiling baok encouragement to her reflection 
in the glass as if it had been that of another per- 
son. There was no use in putting off the evil day, 
she said to herself, it would only make it harder ; 
and so, when the great bells clanged out their 
harsh summons, she went out into the beautiful 
June morning, joined the crowd which streame 
across the bridge, and before the last brazen tone 
had died away, preliminaries were arranged, and 
Thirza was in her old place again. 

All through the long summer days Thirza 
labored on at the old work, with aching limbs and 
throbbing pulses. The unceasing din and jar, the 
invisible flying filaments, the hot, oily atmosphere, 
the coarse chatter of the operatives, wearied and 
sickened her as never before. Every evening she 
left the mill with a slower step ; deep lines began 
to show themselves in her face, heavy shadows to 
settle beneath her dark, sad eyes. Poor girl ! it 
was all so much harder than she had anticipated. 


Thirza, 


121 


The latent forces in her nature, which, through all 
those years of toil, had never been called into 
action, were now, since her plunge into another 
phase of life, fully aroused, and asserted them- 
selves in ceaseless clamor against surroundings. 
Besides this, — smother it, fight it, ignore it, as she 
might, — she was living in a state of tremulous ex- 
pectancy. Again and again her heart had leaped 
at the sight of a figure in the distance, only to 
sink again into a dull throb of disappointment. 

The fourth Sunday after her return, Thirza went 
to church for the first time. It was early when 
she arrived and people were just beginning to as- 
semble. Many greeted her warmly and proffered 
her a seat, but she refused all, taking one far back, 
and at one side where she could see all who 
entered. The seats gradually filled, but it was not 
until the last strains of the voluntary were dying 
away that Madison, senior, the great manufacturer, 
and his large complacent-looking wife came in, and 
with an air of filling the whole edifice, marched 
down to their pew in the front row. The music 
ceased. There was a rustling of silk which was 
audible in every part of the little church, and 
Warren Madison entered, accompanied by a state- 
ly blonde girl, elegantly attired. Queen-like she 
swept along, and Thirza saw, as if in a dream, the 
smile which she bestowed upon her escort as he 
stood aside to allow her to enter the pew, and she 
6 


122 


Thirza, 


saw also his face, looking handsomer and manlier 
than ever. Then they were seated, and only the 
backs of their heads were visible. Thirza’s heart 
stood still for a moment, and then began beating 
so wildly that she almost feared those around her 
might hear it. She went through mechanically 
with the simple forms the service required. She 
even tried to follow the thread of the Rev. Mr. 
Smyther’s labored discourse, but there, between 
her and the pulpit, were the nodding white plumes 
and the yellow braid, and the brown shapely head 
and broad shoulders, and oh ! so near together ! 
Interminable as the service seemed, it came to an 
end at last, and before the amen of the benediction 
had died upon the air, Thirza was in the street, 
hastening homeward. 

The next day she stood at her loom, listlessly 
watching the shifting cloud-pictures in the mid- 
summer sky, the glittering river, and the distant 
meadows and woods, and .wishing herself away 
from the noise and the close air, and alone in some 
deep nook, where she could hide her face and 
think. A loud, confused mingling of voices, 
among which a high-pitched, girlish one was most 
conspicuous, rose above the clatter of the machin- 
ery, and drew her attention. She turned involun- 
tarily toward the sound, and as quickly back 
again. That one glance had sufficed to show her 
Warren Madison, escorting a party of ladies 


Thirza. 


123 


through the mill. The blonde girl was there, 
looking, in her white dress, like a freshly-gathered 
lily. The party passed near her. She heard young 
Madison’s voice warning the ladies to keep their 
draperies from the machinery ; she heard the 
girlish voice in laughing answer, and, as they 
passed by, the same voice exclaiming, “ Why, 
Warren, what a nice girl, for a mill-girl ! The 
dark one, I mean, by the window.” Then there 
came a little whiff of violet perfume, and they had 
gone — he had gone ! And, even in the midst of 
her humiliation and anger and self-pity, she could 
not but be thankful that he had thus passed her 
by, without a word. She could not have borne it 
— there. 

The machinery roared and clattered and groaned, 
the air grew closer and hotter, the silvery clouds 
grew denser and blacker, and little puffs of wind 
blew in and fanned her feverish temples ; and at 
last the bell sounded, and she could go. Away ! 
no matter where, so that she were out of sight of 
everything and everybody, so that she could be 
alone with her own torn, wrathful, tortured soul. 
Straight through the town she went, up the hill 
beyond, and into the old burying-ground, where 
her parents rested. It was the only place, alas ! 
where she was sure of being left alone ; for there 
is no place so given over to loneliness and solitude 
as a country grave-yard. Here, among the quiet 


124 


Thirza. 


sleepers, where the grass and brier-roses grew rank 
and tall, and undisturbed, except now and then to 
make room for a new-comer, — here she dared look 
herself in the face. And oh, the shame and scorn 
and loathing which that self-inspection produced ! 
She threw herself down by the graves, — her graves, 
— and buried her face upon her arms. She lay 
there until shadows gathered about her, so still 
that the small brown sparrows hopped fearlessly 
across the folds of her dress and nestled in the 
grass beside her. At last she started up, and 
pressed her hands against her temples. 

I cannot bear it ! ” she cried aloud. ‘‘I thought 
I could ; but I cannot ! I must leave this place — 
this hateful, dreadful place ” 

Was there a footstep near her in the dry grass, 
and was some one standing there in the dusk ? 
She sprang to her feet and would have fled ; but 
the figure came rapidly toward her. It was War- 
ren Madison. 

‘‘You must pardon my following you, Thirza,” 
he said. “ I went to the house, and they told me 
you had come up this way. I came after you, be- 
cause I have something I must say to you.” 

It was light enough for Thirza to see that he was 
very pale, and that his eyes were fixed eagerly 
upon her face. Trembling, bewildered, she made 
another attempt to pass him ; but he seized her 
wrist and detained her. 


Thirza, 


125 


“ Thirza,” he cried, “ do not run away from me 
until you have heard what I have to say. Let 
me look in your face, and see if I can find what I 
thought I saw there when we parted that evening, 
more than a year ago.” 

He dre^y her toward him, and compelled her to 
meet his gaze. She tried to meet it with coldness 
and scorn ; but she was weak and unnerved, and 
there was such pleading tenderness in his voice ! 
She trembled, and sought feebly to withdraw her 
hand. 

“ Thirza, won’t you listen ? I love you ! I have 
loved you so long — I never knew it until you went 
away ; I never knew how much until I saw you to- 
day. I did not even know you had returned. Oh, 
Thirza, I could not have spoken a word to you be- 
fore those people for worlds ; but how I longed to 
snatch you up in my arms ! If you had only looked 
at me, proud little statue in a gray dress ! ” 

He compelled her to turn her face toward him. 

Thirza, was I mistaken ? No, I was not ! ” 
and his voice was full of exultation. “ I see the 
same look in your eyes again. You love me, my 
darling ! There ! ” he cried, releasing her hands, 
proud, cruel little woman, go ! Leave me ! Run 
away from me ! I do not keep you ; but, Thirza, 
you are mine, for all that ! ” 

Hardly conscious of herself, Thirza stood before 
him, making no use of her liberty. 


126 


Thirza, 


** Come, Thirza,” said the shaking, passionate 
voice, leave all the work and all the worry — your 
own words, darling ; how often I have thought of 
them ! Leave it all behind, and come here, to me ! ” 

The clouds had parted, and the stars flamed 
out, one after another ; and, as they were going 
home together through the starlight, the young 
man said : 

‘‘ And did you live the ^ real life ’ you anticipated, 
Thirza?” 

She raised her shining face to his. 

It has just begun/’ she said. 


Molly 





Molly, 


129 


MOLLY. 

A SMALL clearing on a hill-side, sloping up from 
the little-traversed mountain-road to the forest, 
upon whose edge, in the midst of stunted oaks and 
scraggy pines stood a rude cabin, such as one 
comes upon here and there in the remote wilds of 
West Virginia. The sun, pausing just above the 
sharp summit of Pinnacle Mountain, threw slant 
rays across the rugged landscape, which spring was 
touching up with a thousand soft tints. A great 
swelling expanse of green, broken at intervals by 
frowning ledges, rolled off to the low-lying purple 
mountain ranges, whose summits still swam in sun- 
set light, while their bases were lost in deepest 
shadow. Over all, a universal hush, the hush 
which thrills one with a sense of utter isolation and 
loneliness. 

The man and woman who were seated before the 
cabin door hardly perceived these things. What 
their eyes saw, doubtless, was the fair promise of 
the corn-field which stretched along the road for 
some distance, the white cow with her spotted calf, 
and the litter of lively pigs which occupied inclo- 
sures near the cabin, and — the tiny baby, who lay, 
6 * 


130 


Molly, 

blinking and clutching at nothing, across the 
woman’s lap. She was looking down upon the 
child with a smile upon her face. It was a young 
and handsome face, but there were .shadows in the 
dark eyes and around the drooping lids, which the 
smile could not chase away — traces of intense suf- 
fering, strange to see in a face so young. 

The man, a young and stalwart fellow, shaggy of 
hair and long of limb, had placed himself upon a 
log which lay beside the door-step, and was lost in 
contemplation of the small atom of embryo man- 
hood upon which his deep-set blue eyes were fixed. 
He had been grappling for three weeks with the 
overpowering fact of this child’s existence, and 
had hardly compassed it yet. 

Lord ! Molly,” he exclaimed, his face broaden- 
ing into a smile, ‘‘jess look at him now ! Look at 
them thar eyes ! People says as babies don’t know 
nuthin’. Burned ef thet thar young un don’t look 
knowin’er ’n old Jedge Wessminster hisself. Why, 
I’m mos’ afeared on him sometimes, the way he 
eyes me, ez cunnin’ like, ez much ez ter say ‘ I’m 
hyar, dad, an’ I’m agoin’ ter stay, an’ you’s jess 
got ter knuckle right down tew it, dad ! ’ Lord ! 
look at thet thar now ! ” And the happy sire took 
one of the baby’s small wrinkled paws and laid it 
across the horny palm of his own big left hand. 

“Jess look, Molly! Now you ain’t agoin’ to 
tell me ez thet thar hand is ever agoin’ to handle a 


Molly. 1 3 1 

ax or a gun, or — or — ” pausing for a climax, 
** sling down a glass o’ whiskey ? ’Tain’t possible ! ” 
At this juncture, an inquisitive fly lit upon the 
small eminence in the centre of the child’s visage 
destined to do duty as a nose. Hardly had the 
venturesome insect settled when, without moving a 
muscle of his solemn countenance, that astonishing 
infant, with one erratic, back-handed gesture, 
brushed him away. The enraptured father burst 
into a roar of laughter. 

“ I tole ye so, Molly ! I tole ye so ! Babies is 
jess a-puttin’ on. They knows a heap more’n they 
gits credit fur, you bet ! ” 

Something like a smile here distended the child’s 
uncertain mouth, and something which might be 
construed into a wink contracted for an instant his 
small right eye, whereupon the ecstatic father 
made the welkin ring with loud haw-haws of ap- 
preciative mirth. 

Molly laughed too, this time. 

What a man you are, Sandy ! I’m glad you 
feel so happy, though,” she continued, softly, 
while a flush rose to her cheek and quickly sub- 
sided. I ain’t been much comp’ny for ye, but I 
reckon it’ll be different now. Since baby come I 

feel better, every way, an’ I reckon ” 

She stopped abruptly and bent low over the 
child. 

Sandy had ceased his contemplation of the boy, 


132 


Molly. 

and had listened to his wife’s words with a look 
of incredulous delight upon his rough but not 
uncomely face. It was evidently a new thing for 
her to speak so plainly, and her husband was not 
unmindful of the effort it must have cost her, nor 
ungrateful for the result. 

“ Don’t say no more about it, Molly,” he res- 
ponded, in evident embarrassment. “ Them days 
is past an’ gone an’ furgotten. Leastways, I ain’t 
agoin’ to think no more about ’em. Women is 
women, an’ hez ter be ’lowed fur. I don’t know ez 
’twas more’n I cud expect ; you a-bein’ so porely, 
an’ the old folks a-dyin’, an’ you a-takin’ on it so 
hard. I don’t go fur ter say ez I ain’t been outed 
more’n wunst, but thet’s over’n gone ; an’ now, 
Molly,” he continued cheerfully, things is a- 
lookin’ up. Ez soon ez you’re strong ag’in, I 
reckon ye’ll be all right. The little un’ll keep ye 
from gittin’ lonesome an’ down-sperited ; now 
won’t he, Molly ? ” 

“ Yes, Sandy,” said the woman earnestly, ‘‘ I 
begin to feel as if I could be happy — happier than 
I ever thought of bein’. I’m goin’ to begin a new 
life, Sandy. I’m goin’ to be a better wife to ye 
than — I have been.” 

Her voice trembled, and she stopped suddenly 
again, turning her face away. 

She was a strangely beautiful creature to be the 
wife of this brawny mountaineer. There was a 


133 


Molly, 

softness in her voice in striking contrast to his own 
rough tones, and although the mountain accent 
was plainly observable, it was greatly modified. 
He, himself, ignorant and unsophisticated, full of 
the half-savage impulses and rude virtues of the 
region, was quite conscious of the incongruity, and 
regarded his wife with something of awe mingled 
with his undemonstrative but ardent passion. He 
sat thus looking at her now, in a kind of adoring 
wonder. 

‘‘ Waal ! ” he exclaimed at last, blest ef I kin 
see how I ever spunked up enough fur ter ax ye, 
anyhow ! Ye see, Molly, Td allers liked ye — 
allers ; long afore ye ever thought o’ goin’ down to 
Richmon’.” 

The woman moved uneasily, and turned her 
eyes away from his eager face ; but Sandy failed 
to notice this, and went on, with increasing ardor : 

** After ye’d gone I missed ye powerful ! I used 
ter go over the mounting ter ax after ye when- 
ever I cud git away, an’ when they tole me how 
ye war enjoyin’ yerself down thar, a-arnin’ heaps 
o’ money an’ livin’ so fine, it mos’ set me wild. I 
war allers expectin’ ter hear ez how ye’d got mer- 
ried, an’ I kep’ a-tellin’ myself ’twa’n’t no use ; but 
the more I tole myself, the wuss I got. An’ when 
you come home, Molly, a-lookin’ so white an’ miz- 
zable like, an’ everybody said ye’d die, it — why, it 
most killed me out, Molly, 'deed it did, I sw’ar ! ” 


134 


Molly, 

Sandy did not often speak of those days of his 
probation ; but, finding Molly in a softened mood, 
— Molly, who had always been so cold and reticent, 
so full of moods and fancies, — he felt emboldened 
to proceed. 

Lord, Molly, I didn’t hev no rest night nor 
day ! Bob’ll tell ye how I hung around, an’ hung 
around ; an’ when ye got a little better an’ come out, 
a-lookin’ so white an’ peaked, I war all of atrimble. 
I don’t know now how I ever up an’ axed ye. I reck- 
on I never would a-done it ef it hadn’t been fur Bob. 
He put me up tew it. Sez Bob, ‘ Marm’s afeard as 
Molly’ll go back to Richmon’ ag’in,’ an’ that war 
more’n I could stand ; an’ so I axed ye, Molly.” 

Sandy’s face was not one adapted to the expres- 
sion of tender emotion, but there was a percepti- 
ble mellowing of the irregular features and rough 
voice as he went on. 

“ I axed ye, Molly, and ye said ‘ Yes ’ ; an’ I 
ain’t never hed no call to be sorry ez I axed ye, 
an’ I hope you ain’t, nuther — say, Molly ? ” and the 
great hand was laid tenderly on her arm. 

No, Sandy,” said she, “ I ain’t had no call to 
be sorry. You’ve been good to me ; a heap bet- 
ter’n I have been to you.” 

Truly, Molly was softening. Sandy could hardly 
credit his own happiness. He ran his fingers 
through the tawny fringe of his beard awhile before 
he answered. 


135 


MoTly. 

Thet’s all right, Molly. I laid out to be good 
to ye, an’ I’ve tried to be. Say, Molly,” he con- 
tinued, with a kind of pleading earnestness in his 
voice, ye’ve done hankerin’ arter the city, ain’t 
ye ? Kind o’ gittin’ used to the mountings ag’in, 
ain’t ye, Molly ? ” 

It was quite dark on the little hillside now, and 
Molly could turn her face boldly toward her hus- 
band. 

What makes ye keep a-harpin’ on that, Sandy ? 
I ain’t hankered after the city — not for a long time,” 
and a slight shudder ran over her. ‘‘ Just put that 
idea out of your head, Sandy. Nothin’ could ever 
tempt me to go to the city again. I /laU it ! ” 

She spoke with fierce emphasis, and rose to go 
in. Sandy, somewhat puzzled by her manner, but 
re-assured by her words, heaved a sigh and rose 
also. 

The stars were out, and from a little patch of 
swamp at the foot of the hill came the shrill piping 
of innumerable frogs, and a whip-poor-will’s wild, 
sad cry pierced the silence. The baby had long 
since fallen asleep. The mother laid him in his 
cradle, and night and rest settled down over the 
little cabin. 

Spring had brightened into summer, and summer 
was already on the wane ; an August morning had 
dawned over the mountains. Although the sun 


136 


Molly. 

shone warmly down upon the dew-drenched earth, 
the air was still deliciously cool and fresh. 

Molly stood in the door- way, holding in her arms 
the baby, whose look of preternatural wisdom had 
merged itself into one of infantile softness and be- 
nignity. She was holding him up for the benefit 
of Sandy, who, as he went down the red, dusty 
road, driving the white cow before him, turned now 
and then to bestow a grimace upon his son and 
heir. That small personage’s existence, while per- 
haps less a matter of astonishment to his father than 
formerly, had lost none of the charms of novelty. 
He was a fine, robust little man, and cooed and 
chuckled rapturously in his mother’s arms, stretch- 
ing out his hands toward the scarlet blossoms of 
the trumpet-vine which climbed around the door- 
way. Mother and child made a fair picture in the 
twining green frame touched up with flame-like 
clusters of bloom — a picture which was not lost 
upon Sandy, who, as he passed out of sight of the 
cabin, shook his head, and said to himself again, 
as he had many and many a time before : 

“ Blest ef I see how I ever got up spunk enough 
to ax her 1 ” 

Molly watched her husband out of sight, and 
then let her eyes wander over the summer land- 
scape. There was a look of deep content in her 
face, which was no longer pale and worn. The 
traces of struggle and suffering had disappeared. 


137 


Molly, 

The past may have had its anguish, and its sins 
perhaps, but the present must have seemed peace- 
ful and secure, for she turned from the doorway 
with a song upon her lips, — a song which lingered 
all the morning as she went in and out about her 
household tasks, trying to make more trim and 
bright that which was already the perfection of 
trimness and brightness. When she had finished 
her work the morning was far advanced and the 
sun glared hotly in at the door and window. 

She had rocked the baby to sleep, and came out 
of the inner room with the happy mother-look 
upon her face. She turned to look back, to see, 
perhaps, if the fly-net were drawn carefully enough 
over the little sleeper. As she stood thus she was 
conscious of a human shadow which fell through 
the outer door and blotted out the square of sun- 
shine which lay across the floor, and a deep voice 
said : 

I’d thank you for a drink of water, ma’am.” 

Molly turned quickly and the eyes of the two 
met. Over the man’s face came a look of utter 
amazement which ended in an evil smile. 

Over the woman’s face came a change so sud- 
den, so terrible, that the new-comer, base and 
hardened as he looked, seemed struck by it, and 
the cruel smile subsided a little as he exclaimed : 

“Molly Craigie, by all that’s holy ! ” 

The woman did not seem to hear him. She stood 


138 Molly, 

staring at him with wild incredulous eyes and parted 
lips, from which came in a husky whisper the words : 

“ Dick Staples ! ” 

Then she struck the palms of her hands together, 
and with a sharp cry sank into a chair. The man 
stepped across the threshold, and stood in the cen- 
tre of the room looking curiously about him. He 
was a large, powerfully built fellow, and, in a cer- 
tain way, a handsome one. He was attired in a 
kind of hunting costume which he wore with a 
jaunty, theatrical air. 

I swear ! ” he exclaimed, with a brutal laugh, as 
his eyes took in the details of the neat little kitchen, 
and came at last to rest upon the woman’s white 
face. “ I swear ! I do believe Molly’s married 1 ” 

The idea seemed to strike him as a peculiarly 
novel and amusing one. 

“Molly Craigie married and settled down! 
Well, if that ain't a good one 1 ” and he burst into 
another cruel laugh. His mocking words seemed 
at last to sting the woman, who had sat smitten mute 
before him, into action. She rose and faced him, 
trembling, but defiant. 

“ Dick Staples, what brought ye here only God 
knows, but ye mus’n’t stay here. Ye must go ’way 
this minute, d’ye hear ? Ye must go 'way / ” 

She spoke hurriedly, glancing down the road as 
she did so. The man stared blankly at her a mo- 
ment. 


139 


Molly. 

** Well, now, if that ain’t a nice way to treat an 
old friend ! Why, Molly, you ain’t going back on 
Dick you ain’t seen for so long, are you ? I’d no 
idea of ever seeing you again, but now I’ve found 
you, you don’t get rid of me so easy. I’m going 
to make myself at home, Molly, see if I don’t.” 
And the man seated himself and crossed his legs 
comfortably, looking about him with a mocking air 

of geniality and friendliness. “ Why, d n it ! ” 

he continued, I’m going to stay to dinner, and 
be introduced to your husband ! ” 

Molly went nearer to him ; the defiance in her 
manner had disappeared, and a look of almost ab- 
ject terror and appeal had taken its place. 

“ Dick,” she cried, imploringly, “ oh, Dick, for 
God’s sake hear me ! If ye want to see me, to 
speak with me, I won’t refuse ye, only not here, 
Dick, — for God’s sake not here ! ” and she glanced 
desperately around. “ What brought ye here, 
Dick ? Tell me that, and where are ye stayin’ ?” 

“ Well, then,” he answered surlily, “ I ran up for 
a little shooting, and I’m staying at Digby’s.” 

‘‘At Digby’s ! That’s three miles below here.” 
She spoke eagerly. “ Dick, you noticed the little 
meetin’-house just below here in the hollow ? ” 

The man nodded. 

“ If ye’ll go away now, Dick, right away. I’ll 
meet ye in the woods. Follow the path that leads 
up behind the meetin’-house to-morrow mornin’ 


140 


Molly. 

between ten and eleven an’ I’ll meet ye there, but 
oh, Dick, for God’s sake go away now, before — 
before he comes ! ” 

The desperation in her voice and looks produced 
some effect upon the man apparently, for he rose 
and said : 

‘‘ Well, Molly, as you’re so particular, I’ll do as 
you say ; but mind now, don’t you play me no 
tricks. If you ain’t therey punctual. I’ll be here ; 
now see if I don’t, my beauty.” He would have 
flung his arms about her, but she started back with 
flaming eyes. 

None o’ that, Dick Staples ! ” she cried, 
fiercely. 

“ Spunky as ever, and twice as handsome, I 
swear ! ” exclaimed the fellow, gazing admiringly 
at her. 

Are ye gain' ? ” 

There was something in her voice and mien which 
compelled obedience, and the man prepared to go. 
Outside the door he slung his rifle over his shoulder, 
and looking back, said : 

Remember now, Molly, ‘ Meet me in the willow 
glen,’ you know. Punctual’s the word ! ” and with 
a meaning smile he sauntered down the slope, 
humming a popular melody as he went. 

The woman stood for a time as he had left her, 
her arms hanging by her side, her eyes fixed upon 
the door-way. The baby slept peacefully on, and 


Molly, 141 

outside the birds were twittering and calling, and 
the breeze tossed the vine-tendrils in at the door 
and window, throwing graceful, dancing shadows 
over the floor and across her white face and nerve- 
less hands. A whistle, clear and cheery, came 
piping through the sultry noontide stillness. It 
pierced her deadened senses, and she started, pass- 
ing her hand across her eyes. 

God !” 

That was all she said. Then she began laying 
the table and preparing the midday meal. When 
Sandy reached the cabin she was moving about 
with nervous haste, her eyes gleaming strangely 
and a red spot on either cheek. Her husband’s 
eyes followed her wonderingly. The child awoke 
and she went to bring him. 

“ I wonder what’s up now ? ” he muttered, comb- 
ing his beard with his fingers, as he was wont to 
do when perplexed or embarrassed. “ Women is 
cur’us ! They’s no two ways about it, they is cur’us ! 
They’s no ’countin’ fur ’em no how, ’deed they ain’t ! ” 

At this point the baby appeared, and after his 
usual frolic with him, during which he did not 
cease his furtive study of Molly’s face, Sandy 
shouldered his hoe and started for the field. As 
he reached the door he turned and said : 

O Molly, I seen a man agoin’ across the road 
down by the crick ; one o’ them city fellers, rigged 
out in huntin’ traps. Did ye see him ? ” 


142 


Molly, 

Molly was standing with her back toward her 
husband putting away the remains of the meal. 

“ A man like that came to the door an’ asked 
for a drink,” she answered, quietly. 

“ He warn’t sassy nor nothin’ ? ” inquired Sandy, 
anxiously. 

‘‘ No — he wasn’t sassy,” was the answer. 

Sandy breathed a sigh of relief. 

Them city fellers is mighty apt to be sassy, 
and this time o’ yearthey’se allers prowlin’ ’round,” 
and bestowing another rough caress on the baby 
he went his way. 

That evening as they sat together before the 
door Sandy said : 

“ O Molly, I’m agoin’ over ter Jim Barker’s by 
sun-up ter-morrer, ter help him out with his hoein’. 
Ye won’t be lonesome nor nothin’ ? ” 

No — I reckon not,” replied his wife. ’Twon’t 

be the first time I’ve been here alone.’’ 

Involuntarily the eyes of the husband and wife 
met, in his furtive questioning look which she met 
with a steady gaze. In the dusky twilight her face 
showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated 
strangely. The man turned his eyes away ; there 
was something in that face which he could not 
bear. 

And at ‘‘ sun-up ” Sandy departed. ' ' 

Molly went about her work as usual. Nothing 


143 


Molly, 

was lorgotten, nothing neglected. The two small 
rooms shone with neatness and comfort, and at 
last the child slept. 

The hour for her meeting with Staples had ar- 
rived, and Molly came out and closed the cabin 
door behind her — but here her feet faltered, and 
she paused. With her hands pressed tightly on her 
heart she stood there for a moment with the bright 
August sunshine falling over her ; then she turned 
and re-entered the cabin, went noiselessly into the 
bedroom and knelt down by the sleeping child. 
One warm, languid little hand drooped over the 
cradle’s edge. As her eyes fell upon it a quiver 
passed over the woman’s white face, and she laid 
her cheek softly against it, her lips moving the 
while. 

Then she arose and went away. Down the 
dusty road, with rapid, unfaltering steps and eyes 
that looked straight before her, she passed and dis- 
appeared in the shadow of the forest. 

When Sandy came home at night he found his wife 
standing in the dooY-way, her dark braids falling 
over her shoulders, her cheeks burning, her eyes 
full of a fire which kindled his own slow, but ardent, 
nature. He had never seen her looking so beautiful, 
and he came on toward her with quickened steps 
and a glad look in his face. 

“ Here, Molly,” said he, holding up to her face 


144 


Molly. 

a bunch of dazzling cardinal-flowers, I pulled 
these fur ye, down in the gorge.” 

She shrank from the vivid, blood-red blossoms 
as if he had struck her, and her face turned ashy 
white. 

“ In the gorge ! ” she repeated hoarsely — in 
the gorge ! Throw them away ! throw them away ! ” 
and she cowered down upon the door-stone, hiding 
her face upon her knees. Her husband stared at 
her a moment, hurt and bewildered ; then, throwing 
the flowers far down the slope, he went past her 
into the house. 

Molly’s gittin on her spells ag’in,” he muttered. 

Lord, Lord, I war in hopes ez she war over ’em 
fur good ! ” 

Experience having taught him to leave her to 
herself at such times, he said nothing now, but sat 
with the child upon his lap, looking at her from 
time to time with a patient, wistful look. At last 
the gloom and silence were more than he could 
bear. 

“ Molly,” said he softly, what ails ye ? ” 

At the sound of his voice she started and rose. 
Going to him, she took the child and went out of 
the room. As she did so, Sandy noticed that a 
portion of her dress was torn away. He remarked 
it with wonder, as well as her disordered hair. It 
was not like Molly at all ; but he said nothing, put- 
ting this unusual negligence down to that general 


Molly, 145 

cur’usness ” of womankind which was past find- 
ing out. 

The next day and the next passed away. Sandy 
went in and out, silent and unobtrusive, but with 
his heart full of sickening fears. A half-formed 
doubt of his wife’s sanity — a doubt which her 
strange, fitful conduct during these days, and her 
wild and haggard looks only served to confirm — 
haunted him persistently. He could not work, 
but wandered about, restless and unhappy beyond 
measure. 

On the third day, as he sat, moody and wretched, 
upon the fence of the corn-field, Jim Barker, his 
neighbor from the other side of the mountain, came 
along, and asked Sandy to join him on a hunting 
excursion. He snatched at the idea, hoping to es- 
cape for a time from the insupportable thoughts he 
could not banish, and went up to the cabin for his 
gun. As he took it down, Molly’s eyes followed 
him. 

“ Where are ye goin’, Sandy ? ” she asked. 

‘‘With Jim, fur a little shootin’,” was the an- 
swer; “ye don’t mind, Molly?” 

She came to him and laid her head upon his 
shoulder, and, as he looked down upon her face, 
he was newly startled at its pinched and sunken 
aspect. 

“ No, Sandy, I don’t mind,” she said, with the 
old gentleness in her tones. She returned his ca- 

7 


146 


Molly, 

ress, clinging to his neck, and with reluctance let- 
ting him go. He remembered this in after times, 
and even now it moved him strangely, and he 
turned more than once to look back upon the slen- 
der figure, which stood watching him until he 
joined his companion and passed out of sight. 

An impulse she could not resist compelled her 
gaze to follow them — to leap beyond them, till it 
rested upon the Devil’s Ledge, a huge mass of 
rocks which frowned above the gorge. Along 
these rocks, at intervals, towered great pines, 
weather-beaten, lightning-stricken, stretching out 
giant arms, which seemed to beckon, and point 
down the sheer sides of the precipice into the abyss 
at its foot, where a flock of buzzards wheeled 
slowly and heavily about. The w'oman’s very lips 
grew white as she looked, and she turned shudder- 
ing away, only to return, again and again, as the 
slow hours lagged and lingered. The sunshine 
crept across the floor never so slowly, and passed 
at length away ; and, just as the sun was setting, 
Sandy’s tall form appeared, coming up the slope. 
Against the red sky his face stood out, white, 
rigid, terrible. It was not her husband ; it was 
Fate, advancing. The woman tried to smile. Poor 
mockery of a smile, it died upon her lips. The 
whole landscape — the green forests, purple hills 
and gray rocks — swam before her eyes in a lurid 
mist ; only the face of her husband — that was dis- 


147 


Molly, 

tinct with an awful distinctness. On he came, and 
stood before her. He leaned his gun against the 
side of the cabin, and placed the hand which had 
held it upon the lintel over her head ; the other 
was in his breast. There was a terrible delibera- 
tion in all his movements, and he breathed heavily 
and painfully. It seemed to her an eternity that 
he stood thus, looking down upon her. Then he 
spoke. 

“Thar’s a dead man — over thar — under the 
ledge ! ” 

The woman neither moved nor spoke. He drew 
his hand from his breast and held something toward 
her ; it was the missing fragment torn from her 
dress. 

“This yer war in his hand ” 

With a wild cry the woman threw herself for- 
ward, and wound her arms about her husband’s 
knees. 

“ I didn’t go for to do it! ” she gasped; ‘‘’fore 
God I didn’t ! ” 

Sandy tore himself away from her clinging arms, 
and she fell prostrate. He looked at her fiercely 
and coldly. 

“ Take your hands off me I ” he cried. “ Don’t 
tech me 1 Thar’s thet ez mus’ be made cl’ar be- 
tween you an’ me, woman, — cl’ar ez daylight. 
Ye’ve deceived me an’ lied to me all along, but ye 
won’t lie to me now. ’Tain’t the dead man ez 


1 48 Molly, 

troubles me,” he went on grimly, setting his teeth, 

'tain’t him ez troubles me. Td ’a’ hed to kill him 
myself afore I’d done with him mos’ likely — you 
hadn’t. ’Tain’t that ez troubles me — ifswhatwe7it 
afore ! D’ye hear ? Thet’s what I want ter know 
an’ all I want ter know.” 

He lifted her up and seated himself before her, 
a look of savage determination on his face. 

“ Will ye tell me ? ” 

The woman buried her face upon her arms and 
rocked backward and forward. 

“How can I tell ye, — O Sandy, how can I?” 
she moaned. 

“Ye kin tell me in one word,” said her husband. 
“When ye come back from Richmon’ thar wuz 
them ez tole tales on ye. I hearn ’em, but I didn’t 
believe ’em — I wouldn't believe ’em ! Now ye’ve 
only ter answer me one question — wur what they 
said true ? ” 

He strove to speak calmly, but the passion within 
him burst all bounds ; the words ended in a cry of 
rage, and he seized her arm with a grip of iron. 

“ Answer me, answer me ! ” he cried, tightening 
his hold upon her arm. 

“ It was true, oh my God, it was true ! ” 

He loosened his grasp and she fell insensible at 
his feet. 

There was neither tenderness nor pity in his face 
as he raised her, and carrying her in, laid her upon 


Molly, 149 

the bed. Without a glance at the sleeping child 
he went out again into the gathering darkness. 

Far into the night he was still sitting there un- 
conscious of the passing hours or the chilliness of 
the air. His mind wandered in a wild ch.aos. Over 
and over again he rehearsed the circumstances at- 
tending the finding of the dead man beneath the 
ledge, and the discovery of the fragment of a 
woman’s dress in the rigid fingers ; his horror when 
he recognized the man as the one he had seen 
crossing the road near the cabin, and the fragment 
as a part of Molly’s dress. He had secured this 
and secreted it in his bosom before his companion, 
summoned by his shouts, had come up. He knew 
the pattern too well — he had selected it . himself 
after much consideration. True, another might 
have worn the same, but the recollection of Molly’s 
torn dress arose to banish every doubt. There was 
mystery and crime and horror, and Molly was be- 
hind it all — Molly, the wife he had trusted, the 
mother of his child ! 

It must have been long past midnight when a 
hand was laid upon his shoulder and his wife’s 
voice broke the stillness. 

“ Sandy,” said she, I’ve come — to tell ye all. 
Ye won't refuse to listen ? ” 

He shivered beneath her touch but did not an- 
swer, and there in the merciful darkness which hid 
their faces from each other, Molly told her story 


150 Molly, 

from beginning to end, told it in a torrent of pas- 
sionate words, broken by sobs and groans which 
shook her from head to foot. 

I met him in the woods,” she went on. I 
took him to the ledge, because I knew nobody 
would see us there, an’ then I told him everything. 
I went down on my knees to him an’ begged of 
him to go away an’ leave me ; for I couldn’t bear 
to — to give ye up, an’ I knew ’twould come to that ! 
I begged an’ I prayed an’ he wouldn’t hear; an’ 
then — an’ then — ” she sobbed, he threatened me, 
Sandy, he threatened to go an’ tell you all. He 
put his wicked face close up to mine, I pushed him 
away an’ he fell — he fell, Sandy, but God knows I 
didn’t go fur to do it.” 

She stopped, her voice utterly choked with 
agonizing sobs, but the man before her did not 
move or speak. She threw herself down and 
clasped her arms about him. 

Sandy ! husband ! ” she cried. ‘‘ Do what ye 
please with me — drive me away — kill me, but re- 
member this — I did love ye true an’ faithful — say 
ye believe that ! ” 

The man freed himself roughly from her arms. 

I do believe ye,” he answered. 

There was something horrible in his fierce re- 
pulsion of her touch, in the harsh coldness of his 
voice, and the woman shrank back and crouched 
at his feet, and neither spoke nor moved again until 


Molly, 1 5 1 

with the first twitter of the birds, the baby’s voice 
mingling, the mother rose instinctively to answer 
the feeble summons. She was chilled to the mar- 
row, and her hair and garments were wet with the 
heavy dew. Sandy sat with averted head buried 
in his hands. She longed to go to him, but she 
dared not, and she went in to the child. Weak 
and unnerved as she was, the heat of the room 
overcame her, and sitting there with the baby on 
her lap she fell into a deep, death-like slumber. 
She returned to consciousness to find herself lying 
upon the bed with the child by her side. Some 
one had laid her there, and drawn the green shade 
close to shut out the bright light. She started up 
and listened ; there was no sound but the whir of 
insects and the warbling of birds. She arose, stiff 
and bewildered, and staggered to the door. Sandy 
was gone. 

The day dragged its mournful length along and as 
night fell steps were heard approaching. Molly’s 
heart gave a great leap, but it was not her husband’s 
step — it was that of Bob, her brother, who came 
slowly up the path, a serious expression on his boy- 
ish face. She would have flown to meet him, but 
she could not stir. Her eyes fastened themselves 
upon him with a look that demanded everything. 

The young fellow came close up to his sister 
before speaking. 


152 


Molly, 

“ How d’ye, Molly, how d’ye ? ” he said, seat- 
ing himself beside her and glancing curiously at 
her white, desperate face. 

“What is it. Bob ? ” she gasped ; what is it ? 
Ye can tell me — I can bear it.”' 

I ain’t got nothin’ much to tell,” he answered 
with a troubled air. I war thinkin’ ez you 
mought hev somethin’ ter tell me. Sandy he 
come by an’ said as how he mus’ go down ter 
Gordonsville, he an’ Jim Barker, on account o’ the 
man ez fell over the ledge.” 

The shudder which passed through the woman’s 
frame escaped Bob’s notice, and he continued : 

He said ez how he mus’ stay till th’ inquistwar 
over, an’ moughtn’t be back for a day or two, an’ 
axed me fur ter keep ye comp’ny till he comes 
back.” 

“Till he comes back!” she repeated in a 
whisper. 

She hid her face in her hands, and Bob, who, 
like Sandy, was used to Molly’s strange ways, did 
not question her further. 

Days, weeks and months passed away, and Sandy 
King had not returned. Jim Barker, who had seen 
him last, knew only that he had expressed an in- 
tention to remain a few days longer in the town, 
and all further inquiries revealed nothing more. 

Bob remained with his sister, and, after the first 
few weeks of excitement, settled quietly down in 


Molly. 153 

charge of the little farm, — until Sandy gits 
back,” as he always took pains to declare. 

This stoutly maintained contingency was re- 
garded by the scattered inhabitants of that region 
with doubt and disbelief. Sandy’s mysterious dis- 
appearance’excited much comment, and gave rise 
to endless rumors and conjectures. The current 
belief, however, was, that being himself a man of 
peaceable habits, he had found his wife’s temper 
too cantankerous,” and had gone in search of the 
peace denied him beneath his own roof, such an 
event having occurred more than once within the 
memory of the oldest inhabitant. 

Molly knew nothing of all this. She never left 
her own door from the day of her husband’s 
departure, and Bob, — warm-hearted fellow, — had 
stood valiantly between his sister and the prying 
eyes and sharp tongues which sought to pluck out 
the heart of her mystery, or apply venom to her 
bleeding wounds. 

That something very serious had occurred, he, 
more than any other, had cause to suspect, but he 
respected his sister’s reticence, and watched with 
secret pain and anxiety her increasing pallor and 
weakness. The hopes he had at first cherished of 
Sandy’s return died slowly out, but he hardly con- 
fessed it, even to himself. 

Autumn passed into winter, and winter into 
spring, and in the meantime, as Molly faded, the 
7 * 


154 


Molly, 

little boy thrived and waxed strong. He could 
now toddle about on his sturdy legs, and his 
prattle and laughter filled the lonely cabin. His 
mother watched his development eagerly. 

“See, Bob!” she would say, “see how he 
walks, an’ how plain he can talk ! What’ll Sandy 
say when he sees him ? ” 

Then she would hold up before the round 
baby-eyes a distorted, shaggy likeness of Sandy, 
which he had once exhibited with great pride on 
his return from Gordonsville, and try to teach the 
baby lips to pronounce “ Dad-dy.” 

“ He’ll know him when he comes, Bob, see if he 
don’t. He’ll know his own daddy, won’t he, 
precious man ? An’ he’ll be here by corn-plantin’, 
Bob, sure ! ” 

And Bob, who always entered with a great as- 
sumption of cheerfulness into all her plans, would 
turn away with a sinking heart. 

“ Ef he’s ever a-comin’,” he would say to him- 
self, “ he’d better come mighty soon, or ” and 

then something would rise in his throat, and he 
could never finish the sentence. 

The gray-brown woods had changed to tender 
green and purple, the air teemed with the sounds, 
and the earth with the tints, of early spring. The 
corn was not only planted, but was already sending 
up sharp yellow-green spikes out of the soft red 
loam, and yet Sandy had not returned. 


155 


Molly, 

A strange woman had taken Molly’s place in the 
household, for Molly could no longer go about — 
could hardly sit at the window, looking down the 
lonely road or over the distant hills with her eager, 
hollow eyes. She had never complained, and up 
to this time had refused to see a physician. And 
now when one was summoned, he only shook his 
head in response to Bob’s questions, and hinted 
vaguety at mental causes beyond his reach. 

She lay for the most part with closed eyes, and 
but for the heaving of her breast, one might have 
believed her no longer of the living, so white and 
shadow-like had she become. She seldom spoke, 
but not a night fell, that she did not call Bob 
to her side and whisper, with upturned, anxious 
eyes : 

I reckon he’ll come to-morrow, don’t you ? ” 

One evening, after a restless, feverish day, she 
woke from a brief nap. Her brother was seated 
by her side, looking sadly into her waxen face. 
She started up with a strange glitter in her eyes, 
and seized his arm. 

** Bob,” she whispered, he’s cornin’! He’s 
most here I Go and meet him quick. Bob, an’ tell 
him to hurry, to hurry ^ mind; or I sha’n’t be 
here 1 ” 

The wildness in her face and voice deepened. 

Go, I tell you 1 Quick ! He’s cornin’ I ” and 
she would have sprung from the bed. 


156 Molly, 

“There, there, Molly,” said her brother, sooth- 
ingly, “jess lay right down an’ be quiet, an’ I’ll 

go-” 

She lay upon the pillow as he placed her, pant- 
ing and trembling, and he went hastily out, paus- 
ing, as he went through the kitchen, to say a few 
words to the woman who sat at the table, feeding 
the little boy. 

“ She’s a heap wusser,” he said, “an’ out of her 
head. Keep a watch over her while I go for the 
doctor.” 

He ran quickly down the slope toward the field 
where the horse was tethered. As he reached the 
road he saw a tall form advancing through the 
dusk with rapid strides. Something in the gait 
and outline set his heart to throbbing ; he stopped 
and waited. The man came nearer. 

“ Bob ! ” 

“ Sandy ! ” 

The two men clasped hands. 

“ Molly ? ” said her husband, brokenly. For 
answer Bob pointed silently toward the cabin, 
and Sandy passed up the slope before him. As 
he entered the little kitchen the child stopped 
eating and stared with wide-open eyes at the 
stranger. 

“ Dad-dy ! dad-dy ! ” he babbled. 

Sandy saw and heard nothing, but went blindly 
on into the inner room. 


Molly, 157 

There was a glad cry, and Molly was in her 
husband’s arms. 

I knew ye’d come ! ” she said. 

Yes, darlin’, I’ve come, an’ I’ll never ” 

The words died upon his lips, for something in the 
face upon his breast told him that Molly was lis- 
tening to another voice than his. 





A Summer’s Diversion. 




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^ Summer s Diversio7i, 


i6i 


A SUMMER’S DIVERSION. 

For one, / don’t trust them yaller-haired, 
smooth spoke women ! I never see one on ’em yet 
that wa’n’t full o’ Satan.” 

It was Mrs. Rhoda Squires who uttered the 
above words ; and she uttered them with consider- 
able unnecessary clatter of the dishes she was en- 
gaged in washing. Abby Ann, a lank, dyspeptic- 
looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, was wiping the 
same, while the farmer himself was putting the fin- 
ishing touches to his evening toilet. That toilet 
consisted, as usual, of a good wash at the pump, 
the turning down of his shirt-sleeves, and a brief 
application of the family comb, which occupied a 
convenient wall-pocket at one side of the small 
kitchen mirror — after which the worthy farmer con- 
sidered himself in full dress, and ready for any 
social emergency likely to occur at Higgins’ Four 
Corners. 

No,” said Abby Ann, in response to her 
mother’s remark, ** she ain’t no beauty, but her 
clo’es does fit- elegant. I wish I hed the pattern 
o' that white polonay o’ hern, but I wouldn’t ask 


i 62 


A Summer s Diversion, 


her for it — no, not to save her ! ” she added, in 
praiseworthy emulation of the maternal spirit. 

“ Oh, you women folks ! ” interposed the farmer. 
“You’re as full of envy ’n’ backbitin’ as a beech- 
nut’s full o’ meat. Beauty ! Ye don’t know what 
beauty means. I tell you she is a beauty, — a real 
high-steppin’ out-an’-out beauty ! ” 

“ She’s as old as I be, every bit ! ” snapped ^Irs. 
Squires. “ An’ she hain’t got a speck o’ color in 
her cheeks — an’ she’s a widder at that ! ” 

Farmer Squires turned slowly around and delib- 
erately surveyed the wiry, stooping figure of his 
wife from the small, rusty “ pug” which adorned 
the back of her aggressive little head, and the 
sharp, energetically moving elbows, down to the 
hem of her stiffly starched calico gown. 

“ Look-a-here, Rhody,” said he, a quizzical look 
on his shrewd, freckled countenance, “ you’ve seen 
Gil Simmonses thorough-bred ? Wall — that mare 
is nigh onto two year older’n our old Sal, but I 
swanny ” 

Undoubtedly the red signal which flamed from 
Mrs. Squires’s sallow cheeks warned her husband 
that he had said more than enough, for he came to a 
sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal cow- 
hide shoes, upon which he had just bestowed an 
unusual degree of attention in the way of polish, 
and disappeared in the direction of the barn. 
“He’s jist as big a fool as ever!” she ejacu- 


A Summer s Diversion, 163 

lated. ** The Lord knows I didn’t want no city 
folks a-wearin’ out my carpets, an’ a drinkin’ up 
my cream, an’ a-turnin’ up their noses at me ! But 
no — ever sence he beared that Deacon Fogg made 
nigh onto a hundred dollars last year a-keepin’ 
summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin’ an’ 
his mouth a-waterin’, an’ nothin’ for’t but I must 
slave myself to death the whole summer for a pack 
o’ stuck-up ” 

She paused — for a soft rustle of garments and a 
faint perfume filled the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. 
Squires beheld the object of her vituperation 
standing before her. 

She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not 
“ every bit as old ” as her hostess, a woman whose 
first youth was past ; yet so far as delicately turned 
outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might 
have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. 
Squires’s own pale orbs were of an intense, yet 
soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and looked 
out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, 
slow gaze, as if it were hardly worth their while 
to look at all. A smile, purely conventional, yet 
sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, 
parted the fine, soft lips. 

Her mere presence made the room seem small 
and mean, and Mrs. Squires, into whose soured 
and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and 
grace ate like a sharp acid, smarted under a 


164 A Summers Diver sidn, 

freshly awakened sense of her own physical in- 
significance. 

She received her guest with a kind of defiant in- 
solence, which could not, however, conceal her 
evident embarrassment, while Abby Ann retreated 
ignominiously behind the pantry door. 

** I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in 
finding some one to take us about,” said the lady. 
“ He thought he could.” 

Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her 
manner conciliatory. 

I believe he did,” replied Mrs. Squires, curtly. 
** Abby Ann, go tell your father Mis’ Jerome 
wants him.” 

Abby Ann obeyed, and the lady passed out 
into the front hall, and to the open door. A cas- 
cade of filmy lace and muslin floated from her 
shoulders and trailed across the shiny oil-cloth. 
As the last frill swept across the threshold, Mrs. 
Squires closed the door upon it with a sharp 
report. 

Before the door a little girl was playing on the 
green slope, while an elderly woman with a grave, 
kindly face sat looking on. 

Farmer Squires, summoned by his daughter, 
came round the corner of the house. He touched 
his straw hat awkwardly. 

• ‘‘ They’s a young feller,” he said, that lives a 
mile or so up the river, that has a tiptop team — a 


A Summer s Diversion, 165 

kivered kerridge an’ a fust-rate young boss. His 
folks has seen better days, the Grangers has, an’ 
Rob is proud as Lucifer, but they’s a big mort- 
gage on the farm, an’ he’s ’mazin’ ambitious ter 
pay it off. So when I told him about you, he 
said he’d see about it. He wouldn’t let no woman 
drive his hoss, but he thought mebbe he’d drive 
ye round hisself. Shouldn’t wonder if he was up 
to-night.” 

“ I wish he might come,” said the lady. “ My 
physician said I must ride every day. and I am too 
cowardly to drive if the horse were ever so gentle.” 

“No — I guess you couldn’t hold in Rob’s colt 
with them wrists,” said he, glancing admiringly at 
the slender, jewelled hands. “ I shouldn’t wonder 
if that was Rob now.” 

At this moment wheels were heard rapidly ap- 
proaching, and a carriage appeared in sight. A 
young man was driving. He held the reins with 
firm hand, keeping his eyes fixed upon the fine- 
stepping animal, turned dexterously up the slope, 
brought the horse to a stand-still before the door, 
and sprang lightly to the ground. 

He was a remarkable-looking young fellow, tall 
above the average, and finely proportioned. Hair 
and mustache were dark, eyes of an indescribable 
gray, and shaded by thick, black brows. A proud 
yet frank smile rested on his handsome face. 

“ Hello, Rob,” said Farmer Squires. “Here’s 


1 66 A Summer s Diversion, 

the lady that wanted ter see ye. Mister Granger, 
Mis’ Jerome.” 

The lady bowed, with a trace of hauteur in her 
manner at first, but she looked with one of her 
slow glances into the young man’s face, and then 
extended her hand, and the white fingers rested 
for an instant in his brown palm. Granger re- 
turned her greeting with a bow far from awkward, 
while a rich color surged into his sun-browned 
face. 

That is a magnificent horse of yours, Mr. 
Granger,” said Mrs. Jerome. “ I hope he is 
tractable. I was nearly killed in a runaway once, 
and since then I am very timid.” 

Oh, he is very gentle,” said Granger, caress- 
ing the fiery creature’s beautiful head. If you 
like, I will take you for a drive now — if it is not 
too late.” 

Certainly, I would like it very much. Nettie,” 
she said, turning to the woman, bring my hat 
and Lill’s, and some wraps.” 

The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Mrs. 
Jerome and her child were whirling over the lovely 
country road. Their departure was witnessed by 
the entire Squires family, including an obese dog 
of somnolent habits, and old Sal, the gray mare, 
who thrust her serious face over the stone wall op- 
posite, and gazed contemplatively down the road 
after the retreating carriage. 


A Summer s Diversion, 167 

** Do you think you will be afraid ? ” asked 
Granger, as he helped Mrs. Jerome to alight. 

Oh no,” she answered, with a very charming 
smile. The horse is as docile as he is fiery. I 
shall enjoy the riding immensely. Do you think 
you can come every day ? ” 

I shall try to — at least for the present.” 

Mrs. Jerome watched the carriage out of sight. 
How very interesting ! ” she was thinking. 

Who would dream of finding such a face here ! 
And yet — I don’t know — one would hardly find 
such a face out in the world. Perhaps it will not 
be so dull after all. I thought they were all like 
Squires ! ” 

For several succeeding weeks there was seldom 
a day when the fiery black horse and comfortable 
old carriage did not appear before the farm-house 
door, and but few of those days when Mrs. Jerome 
did not avail herself of the opportunity, sometimes 
accompanied by the child and Nettie, oftener by 
the child alone. 

The interest and curiosity with which young 
Granger had inspired Mrs. Jerome in the begin- 
ning, deepened continually. A true son of the 
soil, descendant of a long line of farmers, whence 
came this remarkable physical beauty, this refined, 
almost poetic, temperament, making it impossible 
for him, in spite of the unconventionality of his 


1 68 A Summer s Diversion, 

manner, to do a rude or ungraceful act ? It was 
against tradition, she thought, — against precedent. 
It puzzled and fascinated her. She found it im- 
possible to treat him as an inferior, notwithstand- 
ing the relation in which he stood to her. Indeed, 
she soon ceased to think of that at all. The books 
which she took with her upon their protracted drives 
were seldom opened. She found it pleasanter to 
lie back in the corner of the carriage, and watch 
the shifting panorama of hill and forest and lake 
through which they were driving. That the hand- 
some head with its clustering locks and clear-cut 
profile, which was always between her and the 
landscape, proved a serious obstruction to the view, 
and that her eyes quite as often occupied them- 
selves with studying the play of those mobile lips, 
and the nervous tension of those sun-browned 
hands upon the reins, was, perhaps, natural and 
unavoidable. 

She talked with him a great deal, too, in her 
careless, fluent way, or rather to him, for the con- 
versation on Granger’s part was limited to an occa- 
sional eager question, a flash of his fine eyes, or an 
appreciative smile at some witty turn. She talked 
of many things, but with delicate tact avoided such 
themes as might prove embarrassing to an un- 
sophisticated mind — including books: 

It was, therefore, with a little shock of surprise 
that she one day found him buried in the pages of 


A Summer s Diversion, . 169 

Tennyson, a volume of whose poems she had left 
upon the carriage seat while she and Lill explored 
a neighboring pasture for raspberries. 

He was lying at full length in the sweet-fern, one 
arm beneath his head, his face eager and absorbed. 
He did not notice her approach, and she had been 
standing near him for some moments before he be- 
came aware of her presence. Then, closing the 
book, he sprang to his feet. 

“So you read poetry, Mr. Granger?” she said, 
arching her straight brows slightly. 

“Sometimes,” he answered. “I have read a 
good many of the old poets. My grandfather left 
a small library, which came into my possession.” 

“Then you have read Shakspere •” began 

the lady. 

“Yes,” interrupted Granger, “Shakspere, and 
Milton, and Pope, and Burns. Is it so strange? ” 
he asked, turning upon her one of his swift glances. 
“If one plowman may write poetry another plow- 
man may read it, I suppose.” 

He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to 
his temples. 

“ And have you read modern authors too? ” 

“Very little. There is no opportunity here. 
There is nothing here— nothing ! ” he answered, 
flinging aside a handful of leaves he had unwit- 
tingly gathered. 

“ Why do you stay here, then ? ” 

8 


170 A Summer s Diversion, 

The question sprang, almost without volition, 
from her lips. She would gladly have recalled it 
the next moment. 

Granger gave her another swift glance, and it 
seemed to her that he repressed the answer which 
was already upon his tongue. A strange, bitter 
smile came to his lips. 

Let the shoemaker stick to his last,” he said, 
turning toward the carriage, “ and the farmer to 
his plow.” 

During the homeward ride he was even more 
taciturn than usual. At the door, Mrs. Jerome 
offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted 
it, with but few words. 

When he returned it, a few days later, it opened 
of itself, and between the leaves lay a small cluster 
of wild roses, and some lines were faintly marked. 
They were these : 

“ When she made pause, I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs and filled with light 
The interval of sound.” 

Cleopatra ! ” Mrs. Jerome repeated softly, 

and like her, I thought there were ‘no men to' 
govern in this wood.’ Poor fellow ! ” 

It was a few days, perhaps a week, later, when 
Mrs. Jerome, who to the mystification of her host 
and hostess had received no letters, and, to the best 


A Summers Diversion, 171 

of their knowledge, had written none, up to this 
time, followed a sudden impulse, and wrote the 
following epistle : 


“My dear friend and physician ;--You advised, no, com- 
manded me, to eschew the world for a season, utterly and completely. 
I have obeyed you to the letter. I will spare you details — enough 
that I am gaining rapidly, and, wonderful to say, I am not in the 
least ennuyde. On the contrary. The cream is delicious, the spring 
water exquisite, the scenery lovely. Even the people interest me. 
I am your debtor, as never before, and beg leave to sign myself. 
Your grateful friend and patient, 
Helen Jerome. 

“ P. S. — It would amuse me to know what the world says of my 
disappearance. Keep my secret, on your very soul. H. J.” 

Midsummer came, and passed, and Mrs. Jerome 
still lingered. In her pursuit for health she had 
been indefatigable. There was hardly a road 
throughout the region which had been left untried, 
hardly a forest path unexplored, or a mountain 
spring untasted. 

“For a woman that sets up for delicate,” re- 
marked Mrs. Squires, as from her point of observa- 
tion behind the window-blinds she watched Mrs. 
Jerome spring with a girl’s elastic grace from the 
carriage, “for a woman that sets up for delicate, 
she can stan’ more ridin’ around, an’ scramblin’ up 
mountains, than any woman I ever see. /couldn’t 
do it — that’s sure an’.sartain ! ” 

“ It’s sperrit, Rhody, sperrit. Them’s the kind 


172 A Summer s Diversion, 

o’ women that ’ll go through fire and flood to git 
what they’re after.” 

"‘Yes, an’ drag everybody along with ’em,” 
added Mrs. Squires, meaningly. 

There was one place to which they rode which 
held a peculiar charm for Mrs. Jerome, — a small 
lake, deep set among the hills and lying always in 
the shadow. Great pines grew down to its brink 
and hung far out over its surface, which was almost 
hidden by thickly growing reeds and the broad 
leaves and shining cups of water-lilies. Dragon- 
flies darted over it, and a dreamy silence invested 
it. A boat lay moored at the foot of the tangled 
path which led from the road, and they often left 
the carriage, and rowed and floated about until 
night-fall among the reeds and lilies. 

They were floating in this way, near the close of 
a sultry August afternoon. Lill lay coiled upon a 
shawl in the bottom of the boat, her arms full of 
lilies whose lithe stems she was twining together, 
talking to herself, meanwhile, in a pretty fashion of 
her own. 

Granger was seated in the bow of the boat, with 
folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the dark water. 
His face was pale and moody. It had worn that 
expression often of late, and he had fallen into a 
habit of long intervals of silence and abstraction. 

The beautiful woman who sat opposite him, idly 


A Summer s Diversion, 173 

trailing one hand, whiter and rosier than the lily it 
held, in the water, seemed also under sdme unusual 
influence. She had not spoken for some time. 
Now and then she would raise the white lids of her 
wonderful eyes, and let them sweep slowly over the 
downcast face of Granger. , 

The dusky water lay around them still as death, 
reflecting in black masses the overhanging pines. 
The air was warm and full of heavy odors and 
drowsy sounds, through which a bird’s brief song 
rang out, now and then, thrillingly sweet. 

The atmosphere seemed to Mrs. Jerome to be- 
come every moment more oppressive. A singular 
agitation began to stir in her breast, which showed 
itself in a faint streak of red upon either cheek. At 
last this feeling became unendurable, and she started 
with a sudden motion which caused the boat to 
rock perilously. 

Granger, roused by this 'movement, seized the 
oars, and with a skilful stroke brought the boat 
again to rest. 

Will you row across to the other side ? ” the 
lady said. I saw some rare orchids there which 
must be in bloom by this time.” 

Granger took up the oars again and rowed as di- 
rected. When the orchids had been found and 
gathered, at Mrs. Jerome’s request he spread her 
a shawl beneath a tree, and seated himself near 
her. 


174 ^ Summers Diversion, 

‘‘How beautiful it is here!" she said, after a 
pause. “ I would like to stay and see the moon 
rise over those pines. It rises early to-night. You 
don’t mind staying ? ’’ she added, looking at Granger. 

“No — ’’ he answered, slowly, “I don’t mind it 
in the least.’’ 

“How different it must look here in winter!’* 
she said, presently. 

“ Yes ; as different as life and death.’* 

“I cannot bear to think I shall never see it 
again,*’ she said, after another and longer pause, 
“and yet I must leave it so soon ! ’* 

“ Soon I ’* Granger echoed, with a start. “ You 
are going away soon, then ? ’’ he asked, in a husky 
voice. 

“Yes — very soon — in two weeks, I think.’* 

Granger made no reply. He bent his head and 
began searching among the leaves and moss. His 
eyes fell upon one of the lady’s hands, which lay 
carelessly by her side,, all its perfections and the 
splendor of its jewels relieved against the crimson 
background of the shawl. 

He could not look away from it, but bent lower 
and lower, until his hair and his quick breath 
swept across the fair fingers. 

At the touch a wonderful change passed over 
the woman. She started and trembled violently — 
her face grew soft and tender. She raised the 
hand which was upon her lap, bent forward and 


A Summer s Diversion, 175 

laid it, hesitatingly, tremblingly, upon the bowed, 
boyish head. 

Robert ! Robert ! ” she whispered. 

Granger raised his head. For a moment, which 
seemed an age, the two looked into each other’s 
face. Hers was full of yearning tenderness and 
suffused with blushes — his, rigid and incredulous, 
yet lighted up with a wild joy. A hoarse cry 
broke from his lips — he thrust aside the hand 
which lingered upon his head, sprang to his feet, 
and went away. 

The color faded from Mrs. Jerome’s face. She 
sat, for a moment, as if turned to stone, her eyes, 
dilated and flashing, fixed upon Granger’s retreat- 
ing figure. Then, with an im^petuous gesture, she 
rose and went to look for Lill. A scream from the 
little girl fell upon her ears at the same moment. 
She had strayed out upon a log which extended 
far into the water, and stood poised, like a bird, 
upon its extreme end. Round her darted a blue- 
mailed dragon-fly, against which the little arms 
were beating in terror. Another instant, and she 
would be in the water. Mrs. Jerome sprang toward 
her, but Granger was already there. As he gave 
the frightened child into her mother’s arms, he 
looked into her face. She returned his gaze with 
a haughty glance, and walked swiftly toward the 
boat. He took his seat in the bow and rowed 
across the lake in silence. Lill buried her scared 


176 A Summer s Diversion, 

little face in her mother’s lap, and no one spoke. 
As they landed, a great, dark bird rose suddenly 
out of the bushes, and with a hideous, mocking 
cry, like the laugh of a maniac, swept across the 
water. The woman started and drew the child 
closer to her breast. 

They drove along in silence until within a mile 
of the Squires’ farm, when, without a word. Granger 
turned into a road over which their drives had 
never before extended. It was evidently a by-way, 
and little used, for grass grew thickly between the 
ruts. On the brow of a hill he halted. 

Below, in the valley, far back from the road-side, 
stood an old, square mansion, of a style unusual in 
that region. It must have been a place of conse- 
quence in its day and generation. The roof was 
hipped, and broken by dormer windows, and a 
carved lintel crowned the door-way. An air of age 
and decay hung about it and the huge, black barns 
with sunken roofs, and the orchard, full of gnarled 
and barren trees, which flanked it. A broad, 
grass-grown avenue, stiffly bordered by dishevelled- 
looking Lombardy poplars, led up to the door. 

Granger turned slowly, and looked full into Mrs. 
Jerome’s face. His own was terribly agitated. 
Doubt, questioning, passionate appeal, spoke from 
every feature. 

‘^That is the old Granger place,” he said, in a 
strange, choked voice, with a gesture toward the 


A Summer s Diversion, 177 

house, ‘^and that" — as a woman appeared for an 

instant in the door-way — ‘*that woman is my 

wife ! " 

The desperate look in his face intensified. His 
eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce into her inmost 
soul. His lips moved as if to speak again, but 
speech failed him. A quick breath escaped the 
lady’s parted lips, and she gave him a swift, 
startled glance. 

It was but a passing ripple on the surface of her 
high-bred calm. However, a smile, the slow, 
sweet, slightly scornful smile he knew so well, came 
to her lips again the next instant. She raised her 
eye-glasses and glanced carelessly over the scene. 

Nice old place ! ’’ she said, in her soft, indiffer- 
ent way. “ Quite an air about it, really ! ’’ 

Granger turned and lashed the horse into a 
gallop. His teeth were set — his blue-gray eyes 
flashed. 

When the door was reached he lifted the woman 
and her child from the carriage, and drove madly 
away, the impact of the wheels with the rocky road 
sending out fierce sparks as they whirled along. 

Mrs. Jerome gathered her lilies into her arms 
and went slowly up to her room. 

Several days passed, and Robert Granger did 
not appear. The harvest was now at its height, 
and the farmers prolonged their labors until sun- 

8 * 


A Su7nmer s Diversion, 


178 

set, and often later. This was the ostensible 
reason for his remaining away. During these days 
Mrs. Jerome was in a restless mood. She wan- 
dered- continually about the woods and fields near 
the farm-house, remaining out far into the bright, 
dewless nights. One evening she complained of 
headache, and remained in-doors, sitting in n^gli' 
gd by the window, looking listlessly out over the 
orchard. Nettie came in from a stroll with Dili, 
and gave her mistress a letter. 

“ VVe met Mr. Granger, and he gave me this, 
madam,” she said, respectfully, but her glance 
rested with some curiosity upon the face of Mrs. 
Jerome as she spoke. 

The letter remained unopened upon her lap long 
after Nettie had gone with the child to her room. 
Finally, she tore the envelope open and read : 

“What is the use of struggling any longer? You have seen, 
from the first day, that I was entirely at your mercy. There have 
been times when I thought you were coldly and deliberately trying 
your power over me ; and there have been other times when I 
thought you were laughing at me, and I did not care, so long as I 
could see your face and hear your voice. I never allowed myself to 
think of the end. Now all is changed. What has happened ? I 
am too miserable — and too madly happy — to think clearly ; but, un- 
less I am quite insane, I have heard your voice speaking my name, 
and I have seen in your face a look which meant — no, I cannot write 
it ! It was something I have never dared dream of, and I cannot 
believe it, even now ; and yet, I cannot forget that moment ! If it 
is a sin to write this — if it is a wrong to you — I swear I have never 
meant to sin, and I would have kept silent forever but for that mo- 


A Summer s Diversion. 


179 


ment. Then, too, it flashed upon me for the first time that you 
did not know I was not free to love you. It musi be that you did 
not know — the doubt is an insult to your womanhood — and yet, 
when I tried to make sure of this, how you baffled me ! But still 
tAai moment remains unforgotten. What does it all mean ? I 
must have an answer ! I shall come to-morrow, at the usual time. 
If you refuse to see me, I shall understand. If not — what then? 

“R. G.” 

The letter fell to the floor, and Helen Jerome^sat 
for a while with heaving breast and hands clasped 
tightly over her face. Then she rose and paced up 
and down the chamber, pausing at length before 
one of the photographs with which she had 
adorned the bare walls. Through sombre, lurid 
vapors swept the figures of two lovers, with wild, 
wan faces, clasped in an eternal embrace of anguish. 
She looked at the picture a long time with a brood- 
ing face. In the dusk the floating figures seemed 
to expand into living forms, their lips to utter 
audible cries of despair. 

“ Even at that price ? ” 

She shuddered as the words escaped her lips, 
and turned away. There was a tap at the door, 
and, before she could speak, a woman entered, — a 
spare, plain-featured woman, dressed in a dark 
cotton gown and coarse straw hat. There was 
something gentle, yet resolute, in her manner, as 
she came toward Mrs. Jerome, her eyes full of re- 
pressed, yet eager, scrutiny. 

Good evenin’, ma’am,” she said, extending a 


i8o 


A Summer s Diversion, 


vinaigrette of filigree and crystal. I was cornin’ 
up this way an’ I thought I’d bring ye your bottle. 
Leastways, I s’pose it’s yourn. It fell out o’ Rob’s 
pocket.” 

She let her eyes wander while she was speak- 
ing over the falling golden hair, the rich robe-de- 
chambre^ and back to the beautiful proud face. 

Thank you, it is mine,” said Mrs. Jerome. 
** Are you Robert Granger’s mother ? ” 

“No, ma’am. I am his wife’s mother. My 
name is Mary Rogers.” 

Mrs. Jerome went to the window and seated 
herself. The hem of her dress brushed against the 
letter, and she stooped and picked it up, crushing 
it in her hand. The visitor did not offer to go. 
She had even removed her hat, and stood nerv- 
ously twisting its ribbons in her hard, brown 
fingers. 

“ Will you sit down, Mrs. Rogers ? ” 

The woman sank upon a chair without speaking. 
She was visibly embarrassed, moving her hands 
and feet restlessly about, and then bursting into 
sudden speech. 

“ I’ve got somethin’ I want to say to ye, Mis’ 
Jerome. It’s kind o’ hard to begin — harder’n I 
thought ’twould be.” 

She spoke in a strained, trembling voice, with 
many pauses. 

“ It’s something that ought to be said, an’ 


A Summer s Diversion, i8i 

there’s nobody to say it but me. Perhaps — you 
don’t know — that folks round here is a-talkin’ 
about — about you an’ Rob.” 

Mrs. Jerome smiled — a scornful smile which 
showed her beautiful teeth. The woman saw it, 
and her swarthy face flushed. 

I don’t suppose it matters to you, ma’am, if 
they be,” she said, bitterly, “ an’ it ain’t on your 
account I come. It’s on Ruby’s account. Ruby’s 
my darter. Oh, Mis’ Jerome,” — she dropped her 
indignant tone, and spoke pleadingly, — “you don’t 
look a bit like a wicked woman, only proud, 
an’ used to havin’ men praise ye, an’ I’m sure if 
you could see Ruby you’d pity her, ma’am. 
She’s a-worryin’ an’ breakin’ her heart over Rob’s 
neglectin’ of her so, but she don’t know what folks 
is a-sayin’. I’ve kep’ it from her so far, but 
I’m afeard I can’t keep it much longer, for folks 
keeps a throwin’ out ’n’ hintin’ round, and if Ruby 
should find it out — the way she is now — it’d kill 
her ! ” 

She stopped, rocking herself to and fro, until she 
could control her shaking voice. 

“ I never wanted her to hev Rob Granger,” she 
began again, speaking hurriedly, “ an’ I tried to 
hender it all I could. But ’twa’n’t no use. I knew 
’twould come to this, sooner or later. ’Twas in his 
father, an’ it’s in him. The Grangers was all of 
’em alike — proud an’ high-sperrited, an’ never 


1 82 A Summer s Diversion. 

knowin’ their own minds two days at a time. It’s 
in the blood, an’ readin’ po’try an’ sich don’t make 
it no better. I knowed Ruby wa’n’t no match for 
Rob ; she’s gentle an’ quiet, an’ ain’t got much 
book-lamin’. But her heart was sot on him, poor 
gal!” 

And again she paused, sobbing gently now, and 
wiping her eyes on her apron. Mrs. Jerome rose 
and went over to her. A wonderful change had 
passed over her. Every trace of pride and scorn 
had faded from her face. She was gentle, almost 
timid, in manner, as she stood before the weeping 
woman. 

Mrs. Rogers,” she said, kindly, I cannot tell 
you how sorry I am. It is all unnecessary, I as- 
sure you. It is very foolish of people to talk. I 
shall see that you have no more trouble on my — 
on this account. If I had known ” — she hesitated, 
stammering. '‘You see, Mrs. Rogers, I did not 
even know that Robert Granger was married. If 
I had, perhaps ” 

The woman looked up incredulously. The blood 
tingled hot through Mrs. Jerome’s veins as she 
answered, with a sting of humiliation at her posi- 
tion. 

“ It may seem strange— it is strange, but no one 
has ever mentioned it to me until — a few days ago. 
Besides, as I tell you, there is no need for talk. 
There shall be none. You can go home in perfect 


A Summer s Diversion, 183 

confidence that you will have no further cause for 
trouble — that I can prevent.” 

Mrs. Rogers rose and took the lady’s soft hand 
in hers. 

“God bless ye, ma’am. Ye’ll do what’s right, 
I know. You must forgive me for thinking wrong 
of ye, but you see ” 

She broke off in confusion. 

“It is no matter,” said Mrs. Jerome. “You 
did not know me, of course. Good-night.” 

When the door had closed upon her visitor, she 
stood for a while motionless, leaning her head 
wearily against the w’indow-frame. 

“ Strange,” she said to herself, “ that she should 
have reminded me of — mother ! It must have 
been her voice.” 

A breeze strayed in at the window, and brought 
up to her face the scent of the lilies which stood in 
a dish upon the bureau. She seized the bowl with 
a hasty gesture, and threw the flowers far out into 
the orchard. 

Mrs. Jerome arose very early the next morning 
and went down for a breath of the fresh, sweet air. 
Early as it was, the farmer had been to the village 
to distribute his milk, and came rattling up the 
road with his wagon full of empty cans. He 
drove up to the door, and, with an air of impor- 
tance, handed the lady a letter, staring inquisitively 
at her haggard face as he did so. The letter was 


A Summer s Diversion, 


184 

merely a friendly one from her physician, in 
answer to her own, and said, among other things : 

“ Van Cassalear is in town. All my ingenuity was called into ac- 
tion in the effort to answer his persistent inquiries in regard to you. 
As glad as I am that you are so content, and inured to human suffer- 
ing as I am supposed to be, I could not but feel a pang of sympathy 
for him. His state is a melancholy one. The world has long since 
ceased conjecturing as to your whereabouts. You are one of those 
privileged beings who are at liberty to do and dare. Your mys- 
terious disappearance is put down with your other eccentricities.” 


Although, under ordinary circumstances, not a 
woman to care for a pretext for anything she chose 
to do, she allowed the reception of this letter to 
serve in the present instance as an excuse for her 
immediate departure — for she had resolved to go 
away at once. 

The surprise of Mr. Squires when her intention 
was made known to him was great, and tinged with 
melancholy— a melancholy which his wife by no 
means shared. But his feelings were considerably 
assuaged by the check handed him by Nettie, for 
an amount far greater than he had any reason to 
expect. 

I might ’a’ got Rob to take ’em down to the 
station, if I’d a-known it sooner,” he remarked to 
his wife, in Mrs. Jerome’s hearing, “ but I seen 
him an hour ago drivin’ like thunder down toward 
Hingham, an’ he won’t be back in time. I guess 
old Sal can drag the folks down to the station. 


A Summer s Diver siort, 185 

an’ I’ll see if I can get Tim Higgins to take the 
things. Time I’s about it, too. Train goes at 
one.” 

Mrs. Jerome went to her room and dressed her- 
self in travelling attire. Leaving Nettie to finish 
packing, she took her hat and went out and down 
the road, walking very rapidly. All along the 
road-side August was flaunting her gay banners. 
Silvery clematis and crimsoning blackberry vines 
draped the rough stone walls ; hard-hack, both 
pink and white, asters and golden-rod, and many 
a humble, nameless flower and shrub, filled all the 
intervening spaces ; yellow birds swung airily upon 
the purple tufts of the giant thistles, and great 
red butterflies hovered across her pathway. She 
passed on, unheeding, until the grassy by-road was 
reached, into which she turned, and stood for a 
moment on the summit of the hill, looking down 
upon the Granger homestead. A woman came out 
as she looked, and leaned over the flowers which 
bloomed in little beds on each side of the door- 
way. Mrs. Jerome half turned, as if to retrace her 
steps, and then walked resolutely down the hill and 
up the avenue. The woman saw her coming, 
stared shyly from beneath her hand in rustic 
fashion for a moment, and then ran into the house, 
where she could be seen peeping from between the 
half-closed window-blinds. 

As she came nearer the house, Mrs. Jerome 


1 86 A Summer s Diversion, 

slackened her steps. Her limbs trembled, she 
panted slightly, and a feeling of faintness came 
over her. The woman she had seen came again 
to the door, and stood there silently as if waiting 
for the stranger to speak — a timid, delicate young 
creature, with great innocent blue eyes and apple- 
bloom complexion. The lady looked into the shy 
face a moment and came forward, holding out her 
gloved hand. 

Are you Mrs. Granger? ” 

The little woman nodded, and the apple-bloom 
color spread to her blue-veined temples. 

I am Mrs. Jerome,” she continued. ‘‘You 
must have heard your — husband speak of me.” 

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Granger, simply, “ I’ve 
heard tell of you.” 

Meantime she was studying her guest with inno- 
cent curiosity — the lovely proud face, the supple 
figure, the quiet elegance of the toilet, with all its 
subtle perfection of detail. It did not irritate her 
as it did Mrs. Squires ; it only filled her with gen- 
tle wonder and enthusiasm. She tried at length to 
shake off the timidity which possessed her. 

“ You must be real tired,” she said gently. 
“ It’s a long walk. Won’t you come in ? ” 

“ Thank you,” said the lady. “ I think I am 
very tired. If you would be so kind as to give me 
a chair, I would sit here in the shade awhile.” 

She sank into the chair which Mrs. Granger 


A Summer s Diversion, 187 

brought, and drank eagerly the cool water which 
she proffered. 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ It is pleasant, here, 
very. How lovely your flowers are.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Granger, with a show of 
pride, “ 1 love flowers, and they always bloom 
well for me.” She went to the beds and began 
gathering some of the choicest. At the same mo- 
ment, Mrs. Rogers came through the hall. As she 
saw the visitor, her face flushed, and she glanced 
suspiciously, resentfully, from Mrs. Jerome to her 
daughter. 

The lady rose. 

“ It’s Mis’ Jerome, mother,” said Ruby, simply, 

the lady that stays at Squireses.” 

Mrs. Jerome bowed, and a look of full under- 
standing passed between the two. Ruby, gather- 
ing her flowers, saw nothing of it. 

“ I am going away, Mrs. Granger,” said the 
lady. “ Circumstances require my immediate re- 
turn to the city. I came to leave a message with 
you for — your husband, as he is not at home. Tell 
him I thank him for the pleasure he has given me 
this summer.” 

I’m real sorry you took the trouble to come 
down,” said Mrs. Granger. It’s a long walk, an’ 
Squires could ’a’ told Rob to-night.” 

‘^Yes, I know,” said the lady, consulting her 
watch, but I wanted a last walk.” 


1 88 A Summer s Diversion. 

She held the little woman’s hand at parting, and 
looked long into the shy face. Then, stooping, 
she, lightly kissed her forehead, and, with the flow- 
ers in her hand, went down the grassy avenue, up 
the hill, and out of sight. 

Robert Granger came home late in the after- 
noon. He drove directly into the barn, and pro- 
ceeded to unharness and care for the jaded beast, 
which was covered with foam and dust. He him- 
self was haggard and wild-eyed, and he moved 
about with feverish haste. When he had made 
the tired creature comfortable in his stall, he went 
to the splendid animal in the one adjoining and 
began to bestow similar attentions upon him. 
While he was thus engaged, Mrs. Rogers came 
into the stable. Her son-in-law hardly raised his 
eyes. She watched him sharply for a moment, 
and came nearer. 

* ^ Ain’t ye cornin’ in to get somethin’ to eat, Rob ? ” 
I have been to dinner,” was the answer. 

“ Rob,” said the woman, quietly, ** ye might as 
well let that go — ye won’t need Dick to-day.” 

Granger started, almost dropping the card he 
was using. 

What do you mean ?” he asked, with an effort 
at indifference, resuming his work on Dick’s shin- 
ing mane. 

“ The lady’s gone away,” said Mrs. Rogers, 
steadily watching him. 


A Summer s Diversion, 189 

“ What ! ” cried Granger, glaring fiercely across 
Dick’s back. “What did you say ? Who’s gone 
away ? ” 

“ The lady — Mis’ Jerome,” repeated the woman. 
“ She come down herself to leave word for ye, 
seein’ that you wa’n’t at home. She was called 
away onexpected. Said she’d enjoyed herself first- 
rate this summer — an’ was much obleeged to ye 
for your kindness.” 

Granger continued his labor, stooping so low 
that his mother-in-law could only see his shoulders 
and the jetty curls which clustered at his neck. She 
smiled as she looked — a somewhat bitter smile. 
She was a good and gentle creature, but Ruby was 
her daughter — her only child. After a moment or 
two she went away. 

When she was out of hearing. Granger rose. 
He was pale as death, and his forehead was cov- 
ered with heavy drops. He leaned weakly against 
Dick, who turned his fine eyes lovingly on his 
master and rubbed his head against his sleeve. 

Granger hid his face upon his arms. 

“ My God ! ” he cried, ‘‘ is that the answer ? ” 

It was the answer. It was all the answer 
Granger ever received. He did not kill himself. 
He did not attempt to follow or even write to her. 
Why should he ? She had come and had gone, — 
a beautiful, bewildering, maddening vision. 

Neither did he try the old remedy of dissipation. 


1 90 A Summer s Diversion, 

as a meaner nature might have done ; but he could 
not bear the quiet meaning of Mrs. Rogers’ looks, 
nor the mute, reproachful face of his wife, and he 
fell into a habit of wandering with dog and gun 
through the mountains, coming home with empty 
game-bag, late at night, exhausted and dishevelled, 
to throw himself upon his bed and sleep long, 
heavy slumbers. Without knowing it, he had 
taken his sore heart to the surest and purest coun- 
sellor ; and little by little those solitary commun- 
ings with nature had their healing effect. 

“ Let him be. Ruby,” her mother would say, as 
Ruby mourned and wondered. “ Let him be. 
The Grangers was all of ’em queer. Rob’ll come 
round all right in course of time.” 

Weeks and months went by in this way, and one 
morning, after a night of desperate pain and 
danger, Robert Granger’s first-born was laid in his 
arms. Then he buried his face in the pillow by 
pale, smiling Ruby, and sent up a prayer for for- 
giveness and strength. True, only God and at- 
tending angels heard it, but Ruby Granger was a 
happier woman from that day. 

Mrs. Van Cassalear was passing along the. city 
street, leaning upon her husband’s arm. It was 
midsummer. Everybody ” was out of town, and 
the Van Cassalears were only there for a day, en 
passant. They were walking rapidly, the lady’s 


A Summer s Diversion, 19 1 

delicate drapery gathered in one hand, a look of 
proud indifference upon her face. 

‘ ‘ Pond-lilies ! Pond-lilies ! ” 

She paused. Upon a street-corner stood a sun- 
burned, bare-foot boy, in scant linen suit and 
coarse farmer’s hat. His hands were full of lilies, 
which he was offering for sale. 

Mrs. Van Cassalear dropped her husband’s arm 
and the white draperies fell unheeded to the pave- 
ment. She almost snatched the lilies from the 
boy’s hands, and bowed her face over them. 

The city sights and sounds faded away. Before 
her spread a deep, dark lake, its surface flecked 
with lilies. Tall pines bent over it, and in their 
shadow drifted a boat, and an impassioned, boyish 
face looked at her from the boat’s prow. . . 

** Six for five cents, lady, please ! ” 

Do you want the things, Helen?” said Van 
Cassalear, the least trace of impatience in his 
voice. If you do, let me pay the boy and we’ll 
go on. People are staring.” 

The lady raised her eyes and drew a deep 
breath. 

** No,” she said, ‘‘ I will not have them.” 

She returned the lilies, with a piece of money, 
to the astonished boy, gathered her drapery again 
into her hand, and swept on. 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 



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My Friend Mrs. Angel, 


195 


MY FRIEND MRS. ANGEL. 

A WASHINGTON SKETCH. 

My acquaintance with Mrs. Angel dates from 
the hour she called upon me, in response to my ap- 
plication at a ladies’ furnishing store for a seam- 
stress ; and the growth of the acquaintance, as well 
as the somewhat peculiar character which it as- 
sumed, was doubtless due to the interest I betrayed 
in the history of her early life, as related to me at 
different times, frankly and with unconscious pa- 
thos and humor. 

Her parents were of the poor white ” class and 
lived in some remote Virginian wild, whose precise 
locality, owing to the narrator’s vague geograph- 
ical knowledge, I could never ascertain. She was 
the oldest of fifteen children, all of whom were 
brought up without the first rudiments of an educa- 
tion, and ruled over with brutal tyranny by a 
father whose sole object in life was to vie with his 
neighbors in the consumption of black jack ” and 
corn whiskey, and to extract the maximum of la- 
bor from his numerous progeny, — his paternal af- 
fection finding vent in the oft-repeated phrase. 


196 My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

“ Burn ’em, I wish I could sell some on ’em!” 
The boys, as they became old enough to realize 
the situation, ran away in regular succession ; — 
the girls, in the forlorn hope of exchanging a cruel 
master for one less so, drifted into matrimony at 
the earliest possible age. Mrs. Angel, at the age 
of sixteen, married a man of her own class, who 
found his way in course of time to Washington 
and became a day-laborer in the Navy Yard. 

It would be interesting, if practicable, to trace 
the subtle laws by which this woman became pos- 
sessed of a beauty of feature and form, and color, 
which a youth spent in field-work, twenty subse- 
quent years of maternity and domestic labor, and 
a life-long diet of the coarsest description, have 
not succeeded in obliterating. Blue, heavily fringed 
eyes, wanting only intelligence to make them really 
beautiful ; dark, wavy hair, delicately formed ears, 
taper fingers, and a fair, though faded complexion, 
tell of a youth whose beauty must have been strik- 
ing. 

She seldom alluded to her husband at all, and 
never by name, the brief pronoun “he” answer- 
ing all purposes, and this invariably uttered in a 
tone of resentment and contempt, which the story 
of his wooing sufficiently accounts for. 

“ His folks lived over t’other side the mount’n,” 
she related, “ an’ he was dead sot an’ <a^^-termined 
he’d have me. I never did see a man so sot 1 The 


197 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

Lord knows why ! He used ter Toiler me ’round 
an’ set an’ set, day in an’ day out. I kep’ a-tellin’ 
of him I couldn’t a-bear him, an’ when I said it, 
he’d jess look at me an’ kind o’ grin like, an’ never 
say nothin’, but keep on a-settin’ ’roun’. Mother 
she didn’t dare say a word, ’cause she knowed 
father ’lowed I should have him whether or no. 
* ’Taint no use, Calline,’ she’d say, ^ ye might as 
well give up fust as last’ Then he got ter cornin’ 
every day, an’ he an’ father jess sot an’ smoked, 
an’ drunk Avhiskey, an’ he a-starin’ at me all the 
time as if he was crazy, like. Bimeby I took ter 
hidin’ when he come. Sometimes I hid in the 
cow-shed, an’ sometimes in the woods, an’ waited 
till he’d cl’ared out, an’ then when I come in the 
house, father he’d out with his cowhide, an’ whip 
me. ‘ I’ll teach ye,’ he’d say, swearin’ awful, H’ll 
teach ye ter honor yer father an’ mother, as 
brought ye inter the world, ye hussy ! ’ An’ after 
a while, what with that, an’ seein’ mother a-cryin’ 
’roun’, I begun ter git enough of it, an’ at last I 
got so I didn’t keer. So I stood up an’ let him 
marry me ; but,” she added, with smouldering 
fire in her faded blue eyes, “ I ’lowed I’d make 
him sorry fur it, an’ I reckon I hev / But he won’t 
let on. Ketch him ! ” 

This, and her subsequent history, her valorous 
struggle with poverty, her industry and tidiness, her 
intense, though blindly foolish, love for her numer- 


198 My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

ous offspring, and a general soft-heartedness toward 
all the world, except niggers ” and the father of 
her children, interested me in the woman to an ex- 
tent which has proved disastrous to my comfort — 
and pocket. I cannot tell how it came about, but 
at an early period of our acquaintance Mrs. Angel 
began to take a lively interest in my wardrobe, not 
only promptly securing such articles as I had 
already condemned as being too shabby, even for 
the wear of an elderly Government employe, but 
going to the length of suggesting the laying aside 
of others which I had modestly deemed capable of 
longer service. From this, it was but a step to 
placing a species of lien upon all newly purchased 
garments, upon which she freely commented, with 
a view to their ultimate destination. It is not 
pleasant to go through the world with the feeling 
of being mortgaged as to one’s apparel, but though 
there have been moments when I have meditated 
rebellion, I have never been able to decide upon 
any practicable course of action. 

I cannot recall the time when Mrs. Angel left 
my room without a package of some description. 
She carries with her always a black satchel, pos- 
sessing the capacity and insatiability of a conjurer’s 
bag, but, unlike that article, while almost anything 
may be gotten into it, nothing ever comes out of 
it. 

Her power of absorption was simply marvellous. 


199 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

Fortunately, however, the demon of desire which 
possesses her may be appeased, all other means 
failing, with such trifles as a row of pins, a few 
needles, or even stale newspapers. 

“ He reads ’em,” she explained, concerning the 
last, “ an’ then I dresses my pantry shelves with 
’em.” 

It is a wonder your husband never taught you 
to read,” I said once, seeing how wistfully she was 
turning the pages of a “ Harper’s Weekly.” 

The look of concentrated hate flashed into her 
face again. 

“ He ’lows a woman ain’t got no call ter read,” 
she answered, bitterly. I allers laid off to larn, 
jess ter spite him, but I ain’t never got to it 
yit.” 

I came home from my office one day late in 
autumn, to find Mrs. Angel sitting by the fire in 
my room, which, as I board with friends, is never 
locked. Her customary trappings of woe were 
enhanced by a new veil of cheap crape which swept 
the floor, and her round, rosy visage wore an expres- 
sion of deep, unmitigated grief. A patch of poudre 
de riz ornamented her tip-tilted nose, a delicate 
aroma of Farina cologne-water pervaded the 
atmosphere, and the handle of my ivory-backed 
hair-brush protruded significantly from one of the 
drawers of my dressing-bureau. 

I glanced at her apprehensively. My first 


200 


My Friend Mrs, Angel. 

thought was that the somewhat mythical personage 
known as “he ” had finally shuffled himself out of 
existence. I approached her respectfully. 

“ Good-evenin’,” she murmured. “ Pretty day ! ” 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Angel ? ” I responded, 
sympathetically. “You seem to be in trouble. 
What has happened ? ” 

“ A heap ! ” was the dismal answer. Old Mr. 
Lawson’s dead ! ’’ 

“ Ah ! Was he a near relative of yours ? ” I in- 
quired. 

“Well,” she answered, — somewhat dubiously, I 
thought, — “not so nigh. He wasn’t rightly no kin. 
His fust wife’s sister married my oldest sister’s hus- 
band’s brother — but we’s allers knowed him, an’ he 
was allers a-comin’ an’ a-goin’ amongst us like one 
o’ the family. An’ if ever they was a saint he was 
one ! ” 

Here she wiped away a furtive tear with a new 
black-bordered kerchief. I was silent, feeling any 
expression of sympathy on my part inadequate to 
the occasion. 

“ He was prepared^' she resumed, presently, 
“ef ever a man was. He got religion about forty 
year ago — that time all the stars fell down, ye 
know. He’d been ter see his gal, an’ was goin’ 
home late, and the stars was a-fallin’, and he was 
took then. He went into a barn, an’ begun 
prayin’, an’ he ain’t never stopped sence.” 


201 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

Again the black-bordered handkerchief was 
brought into requisition. 

“How are the children?” I ventured, after a 
pause. 

“ Po’ly ! ” was the discouraging answer. “ Jinny 
an’ Rosy an’ John Henry has all had the croup. 
I’ve been a-rubbin’ of ’em with Radway’s Relief 
an’ British ile, an’ a-givin’ on it to ’em internal, fur 
two days an’ nights runnin’. Both bottles is empty 
now, and the Lord knows where the next is ter 
come from, fur we ain’t got no credit at the ’pothe- 
cary’s. He s out o’ work ag’in, an’ they ain’t a 
stick o’ wood in the shed, an’ the grocer-man says 
he wants some money putty soon. Ef my hens 
would only lay ” 

“ It was unfortunate,” I could not help saying, 
with a glance at the veil and handkerchief, “that 
you felt obliged to purchase additional mourning 
just when things were looking so badly.” 

She gave me a sharp glance, a glow of something 
like resentment crept into her face. 

“ All our family puts on black fur kin, ef it aitit 
so nigh ! ” she remarked with dignity. 

A lineal descendant of an English earl could not 
have uttered the words “our family” with more 
hauteur. I felt the rebuke. 

Besides,” she added, naively, “the store-keeper 
trusted me fur ’em.” 

“ If only Phenie could git work,” she resumed, 
9 * 


202 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

presently, giving me a peculiar side-glance with 
which custom had rendered me familiar, it being 
the invariable precursor of a request, or a sly sug- 
gestion. “She’s only fifteen, an’ she ain’t over 
’n’ above strongs but she’s got learnin’. She only 
left off school a year ago come spring, an’ she can 
do right smart. There’s Sam Weaver’s gal, as 
lives nex’ do’ to us, she's got a place in the printin’- 
office where she ’arns her twenty-five dollars a 
month, an’ she never seen the day as she could 
read like Phenie, an’ she’s ugly as sin, too.” 

It occurred to me just here that I had heard of 
an additional force being temporarily required in 
the Printing Bureau. I resolved to use what influ- 
ence I possessed with a prominent official, a friend 
of “better days,” to obtain employment for 
“ Phenie,” for, with all the poor woman’s faults and 
weaknesses, I knew that her distress was genuine. 

“ I will see if I can find some employment for 
your daughter,” I said, after reflecting a few mo- 
ments. “ Come here Saturday evening, and I will 
let you know the result.” 

I knew, by the sudden animation visible in Mrs. 
Angel’s face, that this was what she had hoped for 
and expected. 

When I came from the office on Saturday even- 
ing, I found Mrs. Angel and her daughter awaiting 
me. She had often alluded to Phenie with maternal 


203 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

pride, as a “ good-lookin’ gal,” but I was entirely 
unprepared for such a vision as, at her mother’s 
bidding, advanced to greet me. It occurred to me 
that Mrs. Angel herself must have once looked 
somewhat as Phenie did now, except as to the 
eyes. That much-contemned “he” must have 
been responsible for the large, velvety black eyes 
which met mine with such a timid, deprecating 
glance. 

She was small and perfectly shaped, and there 
was enough of vivid coloring and graceful curve 
about her to have furnished a dozen ordinary so- 
ciety belles. Her hair fell loosely to her waist in 
the then prevailing fashion, a silken, wavy, chest- 
nut mass. * A shabby little hat was perched on one 
side her pretty head, and the tightly fitting basque 
of her dress of cheap faded blue exposed her white 
throat almost too freely. I was glad that I could 
answer the anxious pleading of those eyes in a 
manner not disappointing. The girl’s joy was a 
pretty thing to witness as I told her mother that 
my application had been successful, and that 
Phenie would be assigned work on Monday. 

“ He ’lowed she wouldn’t git in,” remarked Mrs. 
Angel, triumphantly, “ an’ as fur Columbus, he 
didn’t want her to git in no how.” 

“ Oh maw ! ” interrupted Phenie, blushing like 
a June rose. 

“ Oh, what’s the use ! ” continued her mother. 


204 My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

Columbus says he wouldn’t ’low it nohow ef he’d 
got a good Stan’. He says as soon as ever he 
gits inter business fur hisself ” 

‘‘ Oh maiv ! ” interposed Phenie again, going to 
the window to hide her blushes. 

“ Columbus is a butcher by trade,” went on 
Mrs. Angel, in a confidential whisper, ‘‘ an’ 
Phenie, she don’t like the idee of it. I tell her 
she’s foolish, but she don’t like it. I reckon it’s 
readin’ them story-papers, all about counts, an’ 
lords, an’ sich, as has set her agin’ butcherin’. 
But Columbus, he jess loves the groun’ she walks 
on, an’ he’s a-goin’ ter hucksterin’ as soon as ever 
he can git a good stan’.” 

I expressed a deep interest in the success of Col- 
umbus, and rescued Phenie from her agony of con- 
fusion by some remarks upon other themes of a 
less personal nature. . Soon after, mother and 
daughter departed. 

Eight o’clock Monday morning brought Phenie, 
looking elated yet nervous. She wore the faded 
blue dress, but a smart ‘‘ butterfly-bow ” of rose- 
pink was perched in her shining hair, and another 
was at her throat. As we entered the Treasury 
building, I saw that she turned pale and trembled 
as if with awe, and as we passed on through the 
lofty, resounding corridors, and up the great flight 
of steps, she panted like a hunted rabbit. 

At the Bureau I presented the appointment-card 


205 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

I had received. The superintendent gave it a 
glance, scrutinized Phenie closely, beckoned to a 
minor power, and in a moment the new employe 
was conducted from my sight. Just as she disap- 
peared behind the door leading into the grimy, 
noisy world of printing-presses, Phenie gave me a 
glance over her shoulder. Such a trembling, 
scared sort of a glance ! I felt as if I had just 
turned a young lamb into a den of ravening wolves. 

Curiously enough, from this day the fortunes of 
the house of Angel began to mend. “ He ” was re- 
instated in “the Yard,” the oldest boy began a 
thriving business in the paper-selling line, and 
Mrs. Angel herself being plentifully supplied with 
plain sewing, the family were suddenly plunged 
into a state of affluence which might well have up- 
set a stronger intellect than that of its maternal 
head. Her lunacy took the mild and customary 
form of ** shopping.” Her trips to the Avenue 
(by which Pennsylvania Avenue is presupposed) 
and to Seventh Street became of semi-weekly oc- 
currence. She generally dropped in to see me on 
her way home, in quite a friendly and informal 
manner (her changed circumstances had not made 
her proud), and with high glee exhibited to me 
her purchases. They savored strongly of Hebraic 
influences, and included almost every superfluous 
article of dress known to modern times. She also 
supplied herself with lace curtains of marvellous 


2 o 6 My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

design, and informed me that she had bought a 
magnificent bristles ” carpet at auction, for a 
mere song. 

“The bristles is wore off in some places,” she 
acknowledged, “ but it’s most as good as new.” 

Her grief for the lamented Mr. Lawson found 
new expression in “ mourning” jewelry of a mas- 
sive and sombre character, including ear-rings of a 
size which threatened destruction to the lobes of 
her small ears. Her fledgelings were liberally 
provided with new garments of a showy and fragile 
nature, and even her feelings toward “him” be- 
came sufficiently softened to allow the purchase of 
a purple necktie and an embroidered shirt-bosom 
for his adornment. 

“ He ain’t not ter say ugly, of a Sunday, when 
he gits the smudge washed off,” she remarked, in 
connection with the above. 

“ It must have been a great satisfaction to you,” 
I suggested (not without a slight tinge of malice), 
“to be able to pay off the grocer and the dry- 
goods merchant.” 

Mrs. Angel’s spirits were visibly dampened by 
this unfeeling allusion. Her beaming face dark- 
ened. 

“They has to take their resks,” she remarked, 
sententiously, after a long pause, fingering her 
hard-rubber bracelets, and avoiding my gaze. 

Once I met her on the Avenue. She was issu- 


207 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

ing from a popular restaurant, followed by four or 
five young Angels, all in high spirits and beaming 
with the consciousness of well-filled stomachs, and 
the possession of divers promising-looking paper 
bags. She greeted me with an effusiveness which 
drew upon me the attention of the passers-by. 

“We’ve done had oysktersf remarked John 
Henry. 

“ ’N’ ice-cream ’n’ cakes ! ” supplemented Rosy. 

The fond mother exhibited, with natural pride, 
their “tin-types,” taken individually and col- 
lectively, sitting and standing, with hats and 
without. The artist had spared neither carmine 
nor gilt-foil, and the effect was unique and daz- 
zling. 

“ I’ve ben layin’ off ter have ’em took these two 
year,” she loudly exclaimed, “an’ I’ve done it! 
He’ll be mad as a hornet, but I don’t keer 1 He 
don’t pay fur ’em I ” 

A vision of the long-suffering grocer and mer- 
chant rose between me and those triumphs of the 
limner’s art, but then, as Mrs. Angel herself had 
philosophically remarked, “ they has to take their 
resks.” 

Phenie, too, in the beginning, was a frequent 
visitor, and I was pleased to note that her painful 
shyness was wearing off a little, and to see a 
marked improvement in her dress. There was, 


2 o 8 My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

with all her childishness, a little trace of coquetry 
about her, — the innocent coquetry of a bird preen- 
ing its feathers in the sunshine. She was simply a 
soft-hearted, ignorant little beauty, whose great, 
appealing eyes seemed always asking for some- 
thing, and in a way one might find it hard to 
refuse. 

In spite of her rich color, I saw that the girl was 
frail, and knowing that she had a long walk after 
leaving the cars, I arranged for her to stay with me 
overnight when the weather was severe, and she 
often did so, sleeping on the lounge in my sitting- 
room. 

At first I exerted myself to entertain my young 
guest, — youth and beauty have great charms for 
me, — but beyond some curiosity at the sight of 
pictures, I met with no encouragement. The girl’s 
mind was a vacuum. She spent the hours before 
retiring in caressing and romping with my kitten, 
in whose company she generally curled up on the 
hearth rug and went to sleep, looking, with her dis- 
arranged curly hair and round, flushed cheeks, like 
a child kept up after its bed-time. 

But after a few weeks she came less frequently, 
and finally not at all. I heard of her occasionally 
through her mother, however, who reported favor- 
ably, dilating most fervidly upon the exemplary 
punctuality with which Phenie placed her earnings 
in the maternal hand. 


209 


iriy Friend Mrs. Angel. 

It happened one evening in mid-winter that I 
was hastening along Pennsylvania Avenue at an 
early hour, when, as I was passing a certain res- 
taurant, the door of the ladies' entrance was 
pushed noisily open, and a party of three came out. 
The first of these was a man, middle-aged, well- 
dressed, and of a jaunty and gallant air, the second 
a large, high-colored young woman, the third — 
Phenie. She looked flushed and excited, and was 
laughing in her pretty, foolish way at something 
her male companion was saying to her. My heart 
stood still ; but, as I watched the trio from the ob- 
scurity of a convenient doorway, I saw the man 
hail a Navy Yard car, assist Phenie to enter it, 
and return to his friend upon the pavement, 

I was ill at ease. I felt a certain degree of 
responsibility concerning Phenie, and the next 
day, therefore, I waited for her at the great iron 
gate through which the employes of the Bureau 
must pass out, determined to have a few words 
with the child in private. Among the first to ap- 
pear was Phenie, and with her, as I had feared, 
the high-colored young woman. In spite of that 
person’s insolent looks, I drew Phenie’s little 
hand unresistingly through my arm, and led her 
away. 

Outside the building, as I had half-expected, 
loitered the man in whose company I had seen her 
on the previous evening. Daylight showed him 


210 


My Friend Mrs. AngeL 

to be a type familiar to Washington eyes — large, 
florid, scrupulously attired, and carrying himself 
with a mingled air of military distinction and sena- 
torial dignity well calculated to deceive an un- 
sophisticated observer. 

He greeted Phenie with a courtly bow, and a 
smile, which changed quickly to a dark look as 
his eyes met mine, and turned away with a sud- 
den assumption of lofty indifference and abstrac- 
tion. 

Phenie accompanied me to my room without a 
word, where I busied myself in preparing some 
work for her mother, chatting meanwhile of various 
trifling matters. 

I could see that the girl looked puzzled, aston- 
ished, even a little angry. She kept one of her 
small, dimpled hands hidden under the folds of her 
water-proof, too, and her eyes followed me wist- 
fully and questioningly. 

Who were those people I saw you with last 
evening, coming from H ’s saloon ? ” I sud- 

denly asked. 

Phenie gave me a startled glance ; her face grew 
pale. 

“ Her name,” she stammered, ‘‘ is Nettie Mul- 
lin.” 

“ And the gentleman ? ” I asked again, with an 
irony which I fear was entirely thrown away. 

The girPs color came back with a rush. 


2II 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

** H‘is name is O’Brien, General O’Brien,” she 
faltered. “He — he’s a great man!” she added, 
with a pitiful little show of pride. 

“ Ah I Did he tell you so ? ” I asked. 

“Nettie told me,” the girl answered, simply. 
“ She’s known him a long time. He’s rich and 
has a great deal of — of influence, and he’s promised 
to get us promoted. He’s a great friend of Net- 
tie’s, and he — he’s a perfect gentleman.” 

She looked so innocent and confused as she sat 
rubbing the toe of one small boot across a figure 
of the carpet, that I had not the heart to question 
her further. In her agitation she had withdrawn 
the hand she had kept hitherto concealed beneath 
her cape, and was turning around and around the 
showy ring which adorned one finger. 

“I api certain, Phenie,” I said, “that your 
friend General O’Brien is no more a general and 
no more a gentleman than that ring you are wear- 
ing is genuine gold and diamonds.” 

She gave me a half-laughing, half-resentful look, 
colored painfully, but said nothing, and went away 
at length, with the puzzled, hurt look still on her 
face. 

For several days following I went every day to 
the gate of the Bureau, and saw Phenie on her 
homeward way. For two or three days “ General 
O’Brien ” continued to loiter about the door- way, 
but as he ceased at length to appear, and as the 


212 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

system I had adopted entailed upon me much fa- 
tigue and loss of time, I decided finally to leave 
Phenie again to her own devices ; not, however, 
without some words of advice and warning. She 
received them silently, but her large, soft eyes 
looked into mine with the pathetic, wondering look 
of a baby, who cannot comprehend why it shall 
not put its hand into the blaze of the lamp. 

I did not see her for some time after this, but 
having ascertained from her mother that she was 
in the habit of coming home regularly, my anxiety 
was in a measure quieted. 

“ She don’t seem nateral, Phenie don’t,” Mrs. 
Angel said one day. “ She’s kind o’ quiet, like, 
as ef she was studyin’ about something, an’ she 
used to be everlastin’ singin’ an’ laughin’. Colum- 
bus, he’s a-gittin’ kind o’ oneasy an’ jealous, like. 
Says he, * Mrs. Angel,’ says he, ‘ ef Phenie should 
go back on me after all, an’ me a-scrapin’, an’ 
a-savin’, an’ a-goin’ out o’ butcherin’ along o’ her 
not favorin’ it,’ says he, ‘ why I reckon I wouldn’t 
never git over it,’ says he. Ye see him an’ her’s 
ben a-keepin’ comp’ny sence Phenie was twelve 
year old. I tells him he ain’t no call ter feel on- 
easy, though, not as / knows on.” 

Something urged me here to speak of what I 
knew as to Phenie’s recent associates, but other 
motives — a regard for the girl’s feelings, and reli- 
ance upon certain promises she had made me, 


Mjy Friend Mrs, Angel, 213 

mingled with a want of confidence in her mother’s 
wisdom and discretion — kept me silent. 

One evening — it was in March, and a little blus- 
tering — I was sitting comfortably by my fire, try- 
ing to decide between the attractions of a new 
magazine and the calls of duty which required my 
attendance at a certain “Ladies’ Committee-meet- 
ing,” when a mufiled, unhandy sort of a knock 
upon my door disturbed my train of thought. I 
uttered an indolent “ Come in ! ” 

There was a hesitating turn of the knob, the door 
opened, and I rose to be confronted by a tall, 
broad-chested young man, of ruddy complexion and 
undecided features ; a young man who, not at all 
abashed, bowed in a friendly manner, while his 
mild, blue eyes wandered about the apartment with 
undisguised eagerness. He wore a new suit of 
invisible plaid, an extremely low-necked shirt, a 
green necktie, and a celluloid pin in the form of a 
shapely feminine leg. Furthermore, the little fin- 
ger of the hand which held his felt hat was grace- 
fully crooked in a manner admitting the display of 
a seal ring of a peculiarly striking style, and an 
agreeable odor of bergamot, suggestive of the 
barber’s chair, emanated from his person. It 
flashed over me at once that this was Phenie 
Angel’s lover, a suspicion which his first words 
verified. 


214 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

Ain't Miss Angel here ? ” he asked, in a voice 
full of surprise and disappointment. 

“No, she is not,” I answered. “You are her 
friend, Columbus ” 

“ Columbus Dockett, ma’am,” he responded. 
“Yes, ma’am. Ain’t Phenie been here this even- 
in’ ?” 

“ No. Did you expect to find her here ? ” 

Mr. Dockett’s frank face clouded perceptibly, 
and he pushed his hair back and forth on his fore- 
head uneasily, as he answered : 

“ I did, indeed, ma’am. I — you see, ma’am, 
she ain’t been cornin’ home reg’lar of late, Phenie 
ain’t, an’ I ain’t had no good chance to speak to her 
for right smart of a while. I laid off to see her to- 
night for certain. I’ve got somethin’ to 
say to her, to-night. You see, ma’am,” he added, 
becoming somewhat confused, “me an’ her — we — 
I — me an’ her ” 

He stopped, evidently feeling his inability to 
express himself with the delicacy the subject re- 
quired. 

“ I understand, Mr. Dockett,” I said, smilingly, 
“ you and Phenie are ” 

“That’s it!” interposed Mr. Dockett, much 
relieved. “ Yes, ma’am, that’s how the matter 
Stan’s 1 I made sure of findin’ Phenie here. Her 
ma says as that’s where she’s been a-stayin’ nights 
lately.” 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 215 

I started. I had not seen Phenie for two or 
three weeks. 

‘‘I dare say she has gone home with one of the 
girls from the Bureau,” I said, reassuringly. 

I had been studying the young man’s face in the 
meantime, and had decided that Mr. Dockett was 
a very good sort of a fellow. There was good 
material in him. It might be in a raw state, but 
it was very good material, indeed. He might be 
a butcher by trade, but surely he was the mild- 
est-mannered man ” that ever felled an ox. His 
voice had a pleasant, sincere ring, and altogether 
he looked like a man with whom it might be 
dangerous to trifle, but who might be trusted to 
handle a sick baby, or wait upon a helpless woman 
with unlimited devotion. 

You don’t have no idea who the girl might be? ” 
he asked, gazing dejectedly into the crown of his 
hat. “ ’Tain’t so late. I might find Phenie yit.” 

It happened, by the merest chance, that I did 
know where Nettie Mullin, in whose company I 
feared Phenie might again be found, boarded. 
That is to say, I knew the house but not its num- 
ber, and standing as it did at a point where several 
streets and avenues intersect, its situation was one 
not easily imparted to another. I saw, by the look 
of hopeless bewilderment on Mr. Dockett’s face, 
that he could have discovered the North-west Pas- 
sage with equal facility. 


2 i 6 My Friend Mrs. AngeL 

I reflected, hesitated, formed a hasty resolution, 
and said : 

“ I am going out to attend a meeting, and I will 
show you where one of the girls, with whom I 
have seen Phenie, lives. You may find her there 
now.’* 

The young man's face brightened a little. He 
expressed his thanks, and waited for me on the 
landing. 

The house where Miss Mullin boarded was only 
a few squares away. It was one of a row of dis- 
couraged-looking houses, which had started out 
with the intention of being genteel but had long 
ago given up the idea. 

It was lighted up cheerfully, however, we saw 
on approaching, and a hack stood before the door. 
I indicated to my companion that this was the 
house, and would have turned away, but at that 
moment the door opened, and two girls came out 
and descended the steps. The light from the hall, 
as well as that of a street-lamp, fell full upon them. 
There was no mistaking Miss Mullin, and her com- 
panion was Phenie^ — in a gay little hat set saucily 
back from her face, the foolish, pretty laugh ring- 
ing from her lips. 

The two girls tripped lightly across the pave- 
ment toward the carriage. As they did so, the 
door was opened from within (the occupant, for 
reasons best known to himself, preferring not to 


217 


Afy Friend Mrs, Angel, 

alight), and a well-clad, masculine arm was gal- 
lantly extended. Miss Mullin, giggling effusively, 
was about to enter, followed close by Phenie, 
when, with a smothered cry, Dockett darted for- 
ward and placed himself between them and the 
carriage. 

“ Phenie,” he said, his voice shaking a little. 

Phenie, where was you a-goin’ ? ” 

The young girl started back, confused. 

“Law, Columbus!” she faltered, in a scared, 
faint voice. 

In the meantime, the man in the carriage put his 
face out of the door, and eyed the intruder, for an 
instant, arrogantly. Then, affecting to ignore his 
presence altogether, he turned toward the two 
girls with a slightly impatient air, saying, in an in- 
describably offensive tone : 

“ Come, ladies, come. What are you stopping 
for?” 

Dockett, who had been holding Phenie’s little 
hand speechlessly, let it fall, and turned toward the 
carriage excitedly. 

“ Miss Angel is stoppin’ to speak to me, sir,” 
he said. “ Have you got anything to say ag’inst 
it?” 

The occupant of the carriage stared haughtily at 
him, broke into a short laugh, and turned again 
toward the girls. 

Dockett, pushing his hat down upon his head. 


lO 


2I8 


My Friend Mrs, AngeL 

took a step nearer. The gentleman, after another 
glance, drew back discreetly, saying, in a noncha- 
lant manner : 

“ Come, Miss Nettie. We shall be late.” 

I suppose you’re not going with us, then. Miss 
Angel ? ” said Miss Mullin, with a toss of her 
plumed hat. 

Dockett turned, and looked Phenie steadily in 
the face. 

Be you goin’ with them ? ” he asked, in a low 
voice. 

N — no ! ” the girl faltered, faintly. “ I’ll go 
with you, Columbus.” 

A muffled remark of a profane nature was heard 
to proceed from the carriage, the door was violently 
closed, and the vehicle rolled rapidly away. 

I had kept discreetly aloof, although an inter- 
ested spectator of the scene. Phenie, after one 
swift glance in my direction, had not raised her 
eyes again. 

We’ll go with you where you’re goin’, ma’am,” 
said Dockett, as the carriage disappeared, but I 
would not permit this. 

“ Well, good evenin’, ma’am,” he said ; I’m a 
thousand times obliged to you — good evenin’.” 

With an indescribable look into Phenie’s pale, 
down-cast face, — a look made up of pain, tender- 
ness and reproach, — he put her hand through his 
arm, and they went away. 


219 


My Friend Mrs, Angel. 

As might have been expected, Phenie avoided 
me, after this, more carefully than ever. I was 
glad that she did so. I was also glad when, a week 
or two later, Mrs. Angel presented herself, in a 
towering state of indignation, to inform me that 
Phenie had received her discharge. In vain I re- 
minded her that Phenie’s position had been, from 
the beginning, a temporary one. 

I don’t keer ! ” she persisted. ‘‘I’d like ter 
know what difference it would ’a’ made to the 
Government — ^jess that little bit o’ money ! An’ 
me a-needin’ of it so ! Why couldn’t they have 
discharged some o’ them women as sets all day on 
them velvet carpets an’ cheers, a-doin’ nothin’ but 
readin’ story-papers ? Phenie’s seen ’em a-doin’ of 
it, time an’ ag’in — an’ she a-workin’ at a old greasy 
machine ! ” 

In vain I endeavored to prove that no injustice 
had been done. Mrs. Angel’s attitude toward the 
United States Government remains, to this day, 
inflexibly hostile. 

“ Ef Columbus had let alone interferin’ between 
Phenie an’ them that was intendin’ well by her, I 
reckon she’d ’a’ been settin’ on one o’ them velvet 
cheers herself by this time,” she remarked, mys- 
teriously, “ or a-doin’ better still.” 

I looked at her sharply. 

“ They’s a gentleman,” she went on, with a fool- 
ish smile, “ a gineral, as is all taken up with Phenie. 


220 


My Friend Mrs. AngeL 

He’s a great friend o’ the President’s, you know, 
an’ they’s no knowin’ what he might do for the 
gal, ef Columbus ’d let alone interferin’.” 

Then Phenie has told you of her new acquaint- 
ance ? ” I said, much relieved. 

Mrs. Angel looked at me blankly. 

Lord, no ! ” she answered, “ she never let on ! 
No, indeed ! But I knowed it — I knowed it all 
along. Sam Weaver’s gal, she told me about it. I 
knowed she was keepin’ company with him, kind 
o’.” 

And you said nothing to Phenie ? ” 

** Lord, no ! Gals is bashful. Mis’ Lawrence. 
No, indeed!” 

Nor say a word of all this to Columbus ? ” I 
asked again. 

What fur ? ” said Mrs. Angel, imperturbably. 

He ain’t got no call ter interfere, ef she kin do 
better.” 

I was silent a moment in sheer despair. 

Do you imagine, for one moment,” I said, 
finally, that if this general, as he calls himself, is 
really what he pretends to be, a gentleman and a 
friend of the President’s, that he means honestly 
by Phenie ? ” 

Mrs. Angel regarded me with a fixed stare, in 
which I discerned wonder at my incredulity, and 
indignation at the implied disparagement of her 
daughter. 


221 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

** Why not ? ” she asked, with some heat. 
“ Phenie was a-readin’ me a story, not so long ago, 
about a man, a lord or somethin’ like, as married 
a miller’s daughter. The name was ‘ The Secrit 
Marriage,’ or thereabouts. I’d like to know ef she 
ain’t as good as a miller s daughter, any time o’ 
day ? ” 

I said no more, ** Against stupidity even the 
gods strive in vain.” 

A month later, perhaps, Mrs. Angel, whom I had 
not seen since the interview just related, came toil- 
ing up the stairs with her arms piled high with sug- 
gestive-looking packages, and beamingly and un- 
ceremoniously entered my sitting-room. With 
rather more than her customary ease of manner, 
she deposited herself and parcels upon the lounge, 
and exclaimed, pantingly : 

“ Wall ! Phenie an’ Columbus is goin’ ter be 
married Sunday week ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” I responded, with a sympathetic thrill, 
** so they have made it up again ? ” 

Yes, indeed !” she answered, they’ve done 
made it up. They was one time I was most afeard 
Columbus was goin’ to back out, though. ’Twas 
after that time when he come down here after 
Phenie, an’ found her a-goin’ out 'long o’ that 
Bureau gal an’ that man as called hisself a gin- 
eral ! ” 


222 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

So you found out the character of Phenie’s 
friend at last ? ” I said. 

Columbus, he found it out. I’ll tell ye how 
’twas. Ye see, him an’ Phenie was a-havin’ of it 
that night after they got home. They was in the 
front room, but they’s right smart of a crack ’roun* 
the do’, an’ you kin hear right smart ef you sets up 
clos’t enough,” she explained, naively. 

“ ‘ Phenie,’ says Columbus, kind o’ humble like, 
* I don’t want no wife as don’t like me better ’n ary 
other man in the world. Ef you likes that man, 
an’ he’s a good man, an’ means right by ye, I ain’t 
one ter stan’ in your way ; but,’ says he, ^ I don’t 
believe he’s no good. I’ve seen them kind befo’, 
an’ I don’t have no confidence into him.’ 

“ ‘ Columbus,’ says Phenie, kind o’ spirited, fur 
heVy ‘ you ain’t got no call to talk agin’ him. He’s 
a gentleman, he is ! ’ 

‘ All right ! ’ says Columbus, chokin’ up, * all 
right. Mebbe he is — but I don’t like this meetin’ 
of him unbeknownst, Phenie. It ain’t the thing. 
Now I want you ter promise me not to meet him 
any more tmhekriownst till you knows more about 
him, an’ you give me leave ter find out all about 
him, an’ see ef I don’t.’ 

“ ‘ I won’t listen to no lies,’ says Phenie, kind o’ 
fiery. 

* I won’t tell ye no lies, Phenie,’ he says. ‘ I 
never has, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter begin now.’ 


My Friend Mrs, Angel, 223 

Then he got up an’ shoved his cheer back, and 
I had ter go ’way from the crack. 

“ Wall, Phenie looked real white an’ sick after 
that, an’ I felt right down sorry fur the gal, but I 
didn’t let on I knew anything, ’cause ’twaren’t my 
place ter speak fust, ye know ! Wall, she dragged 
’round fur three, four days, — that was after she 
was discharged, you see, — an’ one evenin’ Colum- 
bus he come in all tremblin’ an’ stirred up, an’ him 
an’ her went inter the room, an’ I sat up ter the 
crack. An’ Columbus he begun. 

‘‘ ‘ Phenie,’ says he, his voice all hoarse an’ 
shaky, ‘ Phenie, what would you say ef I was ter 
tell ye your fine gineral zvasdt no gineral, an’ was 
a married man at that ? ’ 

“ * Prove it! ’ says Phenie. 

I had ter laugh ter hear her speak up so peart, 
like. I didn’t think ’twas in her, and she not 
much more’n a child. 

“ ‘ Wall,’ says Columbus, * ef I can’t prove it, I 
knows them as kin.’ 

“ ‘Wall,’ says Phenie, ‘ when he tells me so his- 
self. I’ll believe it, an’ not befo’ I ’ 

Then Columbus went away, an’ I could see he 
was all worked up an’ mad. His face was white 
as cotton. Phenie, she went to bed, an’ I heerd 
her a-cryin’ an’ a-snubbin’ all night. She couldn’t 
eat no breakfast, nuther, though I made griddle- 
cakes, extry for her; an’ she dressed herself an’ 


2 24 My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

went off somewheres — I didn’t ask her, but I 
reckon she went down ter the city ter find out 
about that man. Wall, towards night she come 
home, an’ I never see a gal look so — kind o’ wild, 
like, an’ her eyes a-shinin’ an’ her cheeks as red as 
pinies. She sot an’ looked out o’ the winder, an’ 
looked, an’ bimeby Columbus he come in, an’ they 
went into the room. I couldn’t hear rightly what 
they said, the chill’en was makin’ sich a noise, but 
I beared Phenie bust out a-cryin’ fit to break her 
heart, an’ then Columbus, he — wall. Lord ! I 
never did see sich a feller! He jess loves the 
groun’ that gal’s feet walks on ! ” 

“ He must be very forgiving,” I said. Phenie 
has used him badly.” 

“ Wall, I do’ know,” she replied, with perfect 
simplicity. I do’ know as she was beholden to 
Columbus ef she could a-done better. The child 
didn’t mean no harm.” 

Although aware of the impracticability of trying 
to render Mrs. Angel’s comprehension of maternal 
duty clearer, I could not help saying : 

“But why didn’t you, as the girl’s own mother 
and nearest friend, have a talk with Phenie in the 
beginning? You might have spared her a great 
deal of trouble.” 

Mrs. Angel’s eyes dilated with surprise. 

“ Lord 1 Mis’ Lawrence ! ” she exclaimed, “ you 
do’ know ! Why, gals is that bashful I They 


225 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

couldn’t tell their mothers sich things. Why, I’d 
’a’ died ’fore I’d ’a’ told mine anything about — 
love-matters ! Lord ! ” 

“ Well,” I sighed, I’m glad Phenie is going to 
marry so good a fellow as Columbus.” 

“ Y — yes,” she answered, condescendingly, “he’s 
a good feller, Columbus is. He don’t drink or 
smoke, an’ he’s mighty savin’.” 

I remarked here, as on other occasions, that 
Mrs. Angel regarded this being “savin’” as a 
purely masculine virtue. 

“ He’s give Phenie most a hundred dollars 
a’ready,” she continued, complacently. “ They 
ain’t no gal ’round as ’ll have nicer things ’n Phe- 
nie.” 

A fortnight later the newly wedded pair called 
upon me. Phenie looked very sweet in her bridal 
finery, but there was something in her face which 
I did not like. It meant neither peace nor happi- 
ness. She looked older. There were some hard 
lines around her lips, and the childish expression 
of her lovely eyes had given place to a restless, ab- 
sent look. Her husband was serenely unconscious 
of anything wanting — unconscious, indeed, of every- 
thing but his absolute bliss, and his new shiny hat. 
He wore a lavender necktie, now, and gloves of 
the same shade, which were painfully tight, and, 
with the hat, would have made life a burden to any 
but the bridegroom of a week’s standing. Phenie 


10 ’ 


2 26 My Friend Mrs, Angel, 

had little to say, but Columbus was jubilantly lo- 
quacious. 

“ I’ve gone out o’ butcherin’ fur good an’ all,” 
he declared, emphatically. Phenie didn’t like it, 
an’ no more do I. Hucksterin’ is more to my 
mind, ma’am. It’s cleaner an’ — an’ more genteel, 
ma’am. I’ve got stan’, an’ I mean to keep 

Phenie like a lady, ma’am ! ” 

She lived but a year after this. She and her 
baby were buried in one grave. That was five 
years ago. Columbus still wears a very wide hat- 
band of crape, and mourns her sincerely. 

Her death was a heavy blow to her mother, 
whose grief is borne with constant repining and 
unreasoning reflections. The fountains of her eyes 
ov'erflow at the mere utterance of the girl’s name. 

“ The doctors ’lowed ’twas consumption as ailed 
her,” she often repeats, “ but I ain’t never got red 
o’ thinkin’ ’twas trouble as killed her. I used ter 
think, Mis’ Lawrence,” she says, with lowered 
voice, ‘‘that she hadn’t never got over thinkin’ of 
that man as fooled her so ! I wish I could see him 
oncet ! Says she ter me, time an’ agin’, ‘ Ma,’ 
says she, ‘ I reckon I ain’t a-goin’ ter live long. 
I’m right young ter die, but I do’ know as I keer ! ’ 
says she.” 

“ Did her husband ever suspect that she was un- 
happy ? ” I asked. 


227 


My Friend Mrs. Angel. 

Lord no, ma’am ! Or ef he did he never let 
on ! An’ I never seen sich a man ! There wasn’t 
nothui he didn’t git her while she was sick, an’ her 
coffin was a sight ! An’ he goes to her grave, rain 
or shine, as reg’lar as Sunday comes.” 

As I have said, several years have passed since 
Phenie’s death, but Mrs. Angel’s visits have never 
ceased. The lapse of time has left hardly any 
traces upon her comely exterior. In times of 
plenty, her soul expands gleefully and the brown- 
paper parcels multiply. In time^ of dearth, she 
sits, an elderly Niobe, and weeps out her woes / 
upon my hearth-stone. The black satch-el, too, by' 
some occult power, has resisted the wear and tear 
of years and exposure to the elements, and contin- 
ues to swallow up my substance insatiably as of 
yore. Occasionally, as I have said, something 
within me rises in arms against her quiet, yet per- 
sistent encroachments, but this is a transitory 
mood. Her next visit puts my resolutions to 
flight. 




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“Mr. Boyesen’s stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a 
drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive 
than they are strong.” — Home Joiirnal. 

TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. A New Edition. 

One vol, square i2mo, $1.00. 

“ The charm of Mr. Boyesen’s stories lies in their strength and 
purity ; they offer, too, a refreshing escape from the subtlety and in- 
trospection of the present form of fiction. They are robust and 
strong without caricature or sentimentality.” — Chicago Interior, 

QUEEN TITANIA. One vol, square i2mo, $1.00. 

“ One of the most pure and lovable creations of modern fiction.” — 
Bostoti Sunday Hercild, 

“ The story is a thoroughly charming one, and there is much in- 
genuity in the plot.” — The Critic. 


* For rale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, upon receipt of price, bp 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

743 AND 745 Broadway, New York. 




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